


Shining Just For You

by duplicity



Series: Prompt Fills [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bullying, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Lots of Angst, M/M, Mirrors, Possessive Tom Riddle, You Have Been Warned, lots and lots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: Smashing a mirror gives you seven years bad luck.For an eleven-year-old Harry, it gives him seven years of Tom Riddle.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Prompt Fills [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686931
Comments: 99
Kudos: 373
Collections: distractions 💬 halloween big bang 2020





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldenzingy46](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [goldenzingy46](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46) in the [Distractions_Halloween_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Distractions_Halloween_2020) collection. 



> title taken from the song 'mirrorball' by taylor swift.
> 
> this would have been a one-shot (i swear!) but i had to post to my self-imposed deadline, hah. if this fic is not two chapters i'll have to cry in a corner somewhere.
> 
> thank you to [Coral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkJellyfish/works) for betaing this first chapter for me! love u

Harry's cheek smarted. His face was red, most likely, and the burn of it would not fade for some time—his shame and embarrassment stung more than the cut that bit into the palm of his right hand. The cut was shallow on the ends and deep in the middle, right over the meaty part below the thumb.

Below him, fanning around his bent knees in shards and specks—like delicate patterns of snow and ice—were the remnants of the large mirror that had hung in the entrance hall of Number 4, Privet Drive.

The mirror that Harry had not meant to break, but the mirror he had been blamed for breaking nonetheless.

Harry knew about superstitions. He knew that smashing a mirror gave you seven years of bad luck. But he could not help but wonder, then, how much worse his luck could get. Dudley had knocked him into the wall, Aunt Petunia had smacked him and scolded him. No doubt when Uncle Vernon returned home from work, a second punishment would be given out.

With his left hand, Harry gripped the brush handle and swept the pieces of glass towards the dustpan. His hand shook slightly while he worked. Harry swallowed with difficulty, knowing that the shiver was not because he was cold, but rather because his other hand hurt and he was on the verge of tears. His tears, however, would not help him here.

Harry tidied the mess, gathering all the glass up into the dustpan. It did not take too long; he was used to working quickly, and if he ignored the sting of his palm and the throb of his cheek, he could even convince himself it was fun. That the fine dust of glass was sand and the stretch of the entrance hall was a sandbox. Harry made little piles of glass and wrapped them up in newspaper before tossing the bundles into the rubbish. Once done, he gave the area one last look, wary of any lingering pieces that he had somehow missed.

Nothing glittered at him. No winks of light, no shiny surfaces. Harry was reasonably certain he had caught all of the pieces. Now he could retreat to his cupboard for the rest of the afternoon. Hopefully, he would be left alone until dinner.

* * *

Harry's prediction came true. When Uncle Vernon arrived home, it was not cheerful. Harry stood still as he was yelled at. He stared at the floor, did not see out of the corner of his eye how Dudley was grinning smugly.

His aunt and uncle had taken him in, had fed and clothed him, and now a new mirror would have to be purchased. Harry was a burden to them. The expenses of his living were not repaid by the chores he did. All this Harry knew, had heard a thousand times before, but it did not stop fresh tears from welling in his eyes.

What child liked to be yelled at? What child enjoyed being told that their existence was unwanted? Harry tried to not blame himself for what happened, but it was difficult.

Harry's dinner was taken late. Only after the Dursleys had finished and the dishes were cleared away was he allowed to retreat to the darkness of his cupboard.

Part of Harry was relieved. He had once been afraid of the dark, of the unknown monsters that lurked in its shadows. Now that Harry was older, nearly eleven, he knew there were worse things waiting for him in the daylight.

Bad luck or no, there was little that could reach him in the small space that was his. The cupboard under the stairs where he slept, where he could close his eyes and dream.

Harry shut the door and settled onto the floor, curling his body up and wrapping his arms around his knees, mindful of his injured hand. The cut no longer hurt so long as he kept his hand still. He had washed the wound out in the sink. Aunt Petunia had given him a bandage for it so he would not bleed onto the dishes. So if he kept his hand still, he could pretend it was fine.

With a sigh, Harry slumped slowly against the door, allowing his shoulders to sag. He was tired. His bones felt tired. It had taken a lot of energy to stand and listen to Uncle Vernon shout at him. What Harry wanted now was to sleep, to end this day and begin a new one, but it was too early for that. Though he was tired, he was not sleepy.

Harry closed his eyes. There were a number of fantasies he liked to think about. Imaginary worlds where someone would hold him and tell him everything was going to be alright.

It was only here, in the dark, that Harry allowed himself to think about such things. If he carried these daydreams with him out into the real world, they would inevitably be ruined. The worlds and ideas he created were for him and him alone. A special part of himself that he would never share.

Harry drifted away, lost in his head. There was no clock in his cupboard, no way to track the time. The distant sounds of the telly faded in and out of focus, the chatter of the news giving way to the laugh tracks of a funny show that Dudley liked to watch in the evenings.

After some time, Harry grew uncomfortable in his cramped position. He shuffled around, stretching his arms and legs, then decided he would get into bed. He could lay his head down on his pillow and bunch the blankets around him.

Harry tucked himself into his bed. At first he lay flat on his back so he could stare up at the ceiling, but eventually he got tired of that, too. He rolled onto his side and tugged his blankets closer. The blankets were warmed by his body heat, curled over his body like a hug. Harry breathed out quietly into the silence. The telly had gone off at some point. Everyone was upstairs. It was now late enough that he could fall asleep if he tried.

With his good hand, Harry pried his glasses off his face and set them on the floor a short distance away from his face. His vision was blurry, not only because he needed his glasses to see, but also because his exhaustion was finally catching up to him.

Assured that he wouldn't roll onto his glasses while he slept, Harry felt his eyelids grow heavy, already accustomed to being closed after hours of mindless daydreaming. He was tired, so tired, and maybe this was why, as his consciousness tumbled into sleep, he caught a flash of a ruby red gaze reflected in the left lens of his glasses.

* * *

#### I.

* * *

Tom appeared in mirrors. In the glass windows of shops, in the glossy rain puddles that collected on roads and pavements. In the light that bounced off of Harry's glasses.

A boy his age with dark hair and red eyes. An impish smile that dimpled on the sides. A friend.

At first, Tom did not speak. He watched with a funny tilt to his head, like he was curious. Like Harry was interesting. Harry had never been interesting to anyone. He was just Harry. But Tom was always there, always everywhere. In the school bathrooms, in Mrs. Figg's polished vanity, and in the shiny new mirror that Uncle Vernon had installed in the entrance hall.

Harry knew he was too old for an imaginary friend.

But Tom was real. Wasn't he?

Tom scowled at Dudley, sneered at Aunt Petunia, and balled his fists in rage whenever Uncle Vernon shouted in Harry's vicinity. And when it was just the two of them—Tom and Harry—Tom would try to speak. He would press his hand against the surface that separated them and mouth words that Harry tried his hardest to understand.

Harry was trying. And Tom was trying, too, to communicate. But it was difficult when they only ever caught snatches of moments alone together.

So Harry saved pocket money and purchased a compact mirror from the corner shop. He kept Tom with him. He stared into the tiny circular mirror and practiced reading Tom's lips until they could have proper conversations.

Until he learned the name of his non-imaginary friend: Tom Riddle.

* * *

#### II.

* * *

"It'll be summer hols again soon," Harry whispered as he tugged at a particularly stubborn weed in Aunt Petunia's garden. The sun was high, not hot enough to be sweltering, but warm enough that, combined with the physical exertion of gardening, gave cause for Harry's forehead to break out in a sweat.

In the compact on the ground, Tom frowned. The plastic of the lid was cracked on the right side; Dudley's attempt to shatter the thing on the floor. Harry had been more careful after that, to only let the little mirror out of his pocket when he was sure no one else was around.

"I know," Harry said quietly. They had mixed feelings about finishing school for the year.

On one hand, Harry would have more freedom at home to bring the mirror out. It was difficult at school. Some of the other students already made fun of him for talking to himself.

Harry had taken to eating lunch in the strangest of places to get privacy. In a bathroom stall, up a tree, behind the dumpster in the alley outside the school. Tom did not need to eat, but he did like to keep Harry company while Harry ate.

On the other hand, more time at home meant more time spent around his relatives.

Tom hated the Dursleys, hated them more than Harry did. Tom smacked silent, angry fists on the glass whenever Harry was harmed or berated.

For Harry, there was comfort in seeing Tom everywhere. In the polished metal of the sink, in the glass of the cabinets. If Harry was hurt, Tom was there with him. There was only one person in the world who did not like the fact that he was being hurt. It was fine that Tom could only ever bear witness. Tom's anger on his behalf was more than enough.

Soon enough, Harry finished with the garden and went back inside for some water. Harry trudged to the sink and began to wash his hands, scrubbing with soap until all the dirt was gone. As Harry dried his hands, the distant sounds of Dudley playing in the living room filtered into the kitchen.

Anxious, Harry patted at his front pocket to check that Tom's mirror was still there.

There were two options: Harry could go outside, or he could go to his cupboard. Harry didn't particularly feel like being cooped up after an afternoon spent crouching in the garden, but if he wanted to talk to Tom without interruption, it was the best choice. Either way, he would have to pass by the living room.

Harry decided that since Dudley seemed to be in a rowdy mood, the cupboard was likely the safest choice. Slowly, then, he made his way into the hall that led past the living room. Aunt Petunia was in there as well, chattering on the phone. Her laughter set Harry's teeth on edge.

She glared at him as he stepped towards her, then gestured sharply towards the living room. Harry widened his eyes and made a motion towards the cupboard, but Aunt Petunia shook her head and pointed. She must not have wanted the sound of the creaky cupboard door to interrupt her call.

In the living room, Dudley was sitting on the couch, waving a large plastic sword around. The sword was leftover from Piers' birthday last week. Dudley had taken to carrying the sword around and whacking Harry in the behind with it. Uncle Vernon, who found it all amusing, had encouraged this behaviour.

"Harry!" exclaimed Dudley, only to be shushed by his mother out in the hall. Dudley narrowed his eyes at the door and stood up. "Where've you been all day?" he demanded.

"Out in the garden," Harry said dully. "What about you?"

"I've been practicing my sword fight skills." Dudley gave the sword a wave.

Harry was annoyed. He had behaved all morning and now he just wanted to be left alone. "You need all the help you can get," Harry agreed flatly, eyeing the sword.

There was a measure of protection here for Harry because they both had to be quiet. If Dudley tried to hit him, the sword would make noise. A swooping sound would trigger when you waved it wildly enough.

Dudley narrowed his eyes, then glanced shiftily out at the hall. "I might practice with you," Dudley said warningly. "Then you'll see."

"I'd like to see you try."

Dudley gave the sword a swish, mindful of the speed. This meant Harry had ample time to dodge out of the way. Not only that, but Harry was able to wrench the sword out of Dudley's grasp.

Dudley lunged for the other end, grabbing hold. The two boys began to struggle, yanking this way and that, their tug of war carrying them over to the couch. Harry stumbled onto the cushions, trying to keep his feet under him as Dudley tried to drag the sword up and out of Harry's reach.

Their arms stretched over the back of the couch as Dudley continued to pull. Harry kept a firm hold on his end of the sword and gave a violent tug, using his body weight to drag the sword towards him. Dudley fumbled, slumping forwards as the motion jerked them both.

Then the sword made a noise as the trigger was activated.

Both boys froze in horror. Harry was now angled awkwardly on the cushions, the pointed end of the sword held in both his hands at chest level. Dudley loomed over him, handle gripped by chubby fingers.

Aunt Petunia came into the room, her face pinched in anger.

Dudley reacted first, yanking the sword with a viciousness that took Harry by surprise. The sword snapped out of his hands and clipped Harry full in the mouth.

Pain blossomed into existence. Harry was stunned as his mouth filled with the salty taste of blood. He was bleeding. He was—

Harry licked with his tongue, alarmed by the taste, and felt his stomach drop away as one of the teeth he touched _moved._

Dudley lurched back, triumphant, mouth moving as he prepared to lay the blame at Harry's feet. Harry could hardly see, his eyes were so blurry with tears.

Harry sat up. Then, after rooting around with his tongue, spat out two bloody baby teeth out into his hand. He stared blankly at them, unsure of what he was seeing.

Dudley was yammering in the background, seemingly ignorant of the blood that coloured Harry's lips and palm. But Aunt Petunia was not staring at Dudley. Aunt Petunia was looking at _him._

Aunt Petunia strode towards them and wrenched Harry's hand to eye level. Then she lifted a panicked gaze to Harry's face.

Harry did not know what to do. Baby teeth were meant to fall out, only these ones had not been loose. Harry clenched his hand shut and clumsily got to his feet. He wanted—he wanted to see Tom. That was the only thing he had in his head, that he wanted to see Tom.

So Harry took a shaky step forward. Aunt Petunia stepped back, her eyes wide. Then, after a pause, she seemed to snap out of her shock and reached out to grip him by the forearm.

"Go into the bathroom," she instructed. "I will fetch you ice and saltwater."

There would be a mirror there. Harry ran to the bathroom.

His heart was pounding in his ears like his head was stuffed full of cotton. Harry stumbled into the doorway in his haste, but he managed to shut the door behind him. His head spun. There was red on his hands and on his face—

"—going to _kill_ them. I'm going to kill them, Harry, you wait and see, I will, I'm going to, they're going to pay for hurting you—"

Harry clung to the sink to steady himself, then turned his eyes to the mirror. Tom was there, face red, yelling at the top of his lungs. Harry's own face was pale, his chin streaked with thin lines of blood and drool, his eyes puffy from crying.

With great effort, Harry unclenched his stiff fist and let his baby teeth tumble into the sink. Then he lifted that same hand, possessed by an urge to _touch,_ and placed his bloody palm against the mirror.

"Tom?" he whispered, his voice raw and raspy like he'd been running for ages. "Tom?"

Tom paused in his ranting to look at him, at the hand pressed to the mirror. Now that he had Harry's attention, his brows pulled together. He stepped closer and enunciated, "Harry? Are you alright?"

"I—" Harry broke off as the bathroom door swung open.

"What are you doing?" Aunt Petunia shrieked. "Get your hand off that mirror, boy. Here," she said, thrusting an ice pack, an empty glass, and a salt shaker at him. "Rinse your mouth. And clean that mirror." Then she looked down into the sink, where Harry's baby teeth rested.

"They're whole," she muttered to herself. Her eyes flickered back to Harry. "Are there splinters? Pieces?"

It took Harry a moment to realize what she was asking. "No," he mumbled, forcing himself to answer despite the uncomfortable sting in his mouth. "I don't think so, Aunt Petunia."

Aunt Petunia exhaled noisily, her shoulders relaxing. "Very well. I'll see about soup for supper." Then she left and shut the door behind her.

Harry set the ice down on the counter and turned the tap on with shaking hands. Tom watched him as he filled the glass with water and added the salt to it. It took three rinses before Harry felt he could speak without his mouth filling with blood.

Tom had quieted after Aunt Petunia's departure. His hands were twisting and untwisting together. He was waiting for Harry to look at him so he could speak.

"Tom?" Harry repeated softly. His voice sounded better now, at least.

"I'm here."

Tom was always there. He was the only one who was always there. Harry trembled, and this time it had nothing to do with pain. On the mirror, the bloody handprint hovered between them. Harry stared at it, then said, "I can hear you now."

Tom's lips parted in surprise. "You can?"

Harry nodded, a laugh burbling in the back of his throat. "I can."

* * *

#### III.

* * *

Tom’s voice was pretty. It never faltered, never cracked or stuttered. Tom spoke fluently, intelligently, with a confidence that Harry could only dream of achieving. Tom whispered to Harry late at night, quiet stories as Harry drifted off into slumber. 

Harry begged Aunt Petunia for a metal pencil case all summer long. He promised perfect behaviour and completed chores. He kept his mouth shut and bore Dudley’s bullying even when Tom demanded that he fight back.

But it paid off in the end. Harry had a slightly-battered tin pencil case to bring with him to school. The reflection was not perfect; Tom’s face was warped and blurry, his voice sounded like it came from behind a thick layer of glass. But it was something. It was a comfort. Tom whispered facts on world history and muttered about maths under his breath while Harry scribbled out his homework and exam answers.

Tom was with him everywhere. All hours of the day, Tom’s compact was a solid weight in Harry’s pocket. Tom could not keep him safe, could not shield him from words or blows, but Harry could not imagine life without the security of Tom’s constant presence. Better than any toy or treat that Dudley had. Better than any of the other kids at school.

“You’re my best friend,” Harry said shyly, confiding the secret, opening his heart to the one person who truly cared about him.

Tom smiled. “You’re my best friend, Harry.”

Harry warmed at the praise, reassured. Then he stopped in the middle of the pavement to pick at a loose scab on his knee. It stung a little, but it wasn’t too bad. Harry remembered the feeling of pavement on his skin and winced. Though Dudley had gone on to Smeltings, Harry’s lack of popularity at school remained. 

“You’re the only person who likes me,” Harry said as he resumed walking again.

“Don’t think of it that way,” Tom advised. “The people around you are not worth your time. They’re not worthy of _you.”_

Harry had dreamt of hearing those words before. It was easier to believe them when they came from Tom. Tom, who was always right. Tom, who thought Harry was smart and funny.

“I wish you were here with me,” Harry said sadly. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

A shadow fell over Tom’s face, which was awkwardly cropped in Harry’s compact mirror as the two of them walked home from school. “I wish I was, too.”

* * *

Over time, winter had grown into Harry’s favourite season. The idea of a long, dreary afternoon spent shovelling snow with cold, numb hands was improved by the sight of Tom’s face reflected in the ice and in the metal of the shovel.

Fat flakes of snow tickled Harry’s cheeks and melted on the tip of his tongue. Harry licked at his chapped lips, shoving hard against a particularly stubborn chunk of frozen snow. The shovel was heavy and too tall for him, but he made do, using his meagre weight as leverage.

“Go inside,” Tom said, high and tinny, the sound echoing off the curve of the shovel. Audible only to Harry’s ears.

“I’m nearly done,” Harry grit out. “And you know I can’t go back in yet.”

“Sneak in,” Tom said. “Warm your hands and then come back.”

Harry huffed a cloud of condensation into the air, propping the shovel up so he could look at it. With a careful hand, he fumbled with the compact in his coat pocket, pulling it out and flipping it open so he could stare at Tom properly.

“I’d get caught. Besides,” Harry paused to sniffle, wiping the back of his hand under his nose, “like I said, I’m almost done.”

Tom made a noise of frustration and smacked his hand against the surface of the glass, which resulted in an odd warbling noise.

“Sorry, Tom.” Harry shut the compact and placed it back in his pocket. Then he lifted the shovel and resumed his work.

Tom’s red gaze glared at him from the distorted surface of the metal handle. “You’re going to get _sick.”_

“If I’m not already sick, a few more minutes won’t hurt me.”

“Hardly reassuring.”

True to his word, Harry finished after ten minutes or so. He dragged the shovel back into the garage and dumped it against the wall in its designated spot. His nose was pink and dripping with snot as he trudged into the house, mindful of any snow clumps clinging to his jeans.

_“The heater,”_ came Tom’s muffled voice, the words barely audible through the plastic compact lid and the thickness of Harry’s damp coat pocket.

Harry gave his tired limbs a shake to loosen them up, then moved as directed towards the space heater plugged into the living room. Aunt Petunia was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Dudley was upstairs in his room playing video games. Uncle Vernon would not be home for at least another half hour.

The heater was set to medium and radiated a decent amount of warmth as Harry waved his hands over it, rubbing at his fingers to try and get the blood going.

_“Go change your clothes.”_

“One thing at a time,” Harry muttered under his breath. Then he sneezed, doubling over from the force of it. He thought he could hear Tom berating him even while the sneeze was happening.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, wiping at his nose with his sleeve.

‘Fine’ lasted all the way until night fell and the temperature dropped. Harry curled in his room under the stairs, wrapped in his coat and two blankets. The house had heating, but Harry shivered anyway.

Tom was watching, stone-faced, from the open lid of Harry’s pencil case. The image was fuzzy, but Harry had already removed his glasses and put them away, so it was not like the quality of Tom’s face mattered.

“You’re sick,” Tom said eventually. Then he added, “Don’t lie.”

Harry rubbed at his eyes with his cold hands. He was too tired to argue. It wasn’t like there was anything either of them could do. “If I get sick now,” Harry said, “then I get sick.”

“You shouldn’t have to get sick in the first place. _They_ should be the ones out there in the cold.”

Tom wanted the Dursleys to pay. Tom wanted to deliver punishment for the way Harry had been treated for so many years. But Harry could not. He would not. And so they were at an impasse. Tom could not do anything from inside the mirror, and Harry was unwilling to lash out at his family, no matter how terrible they were.

Harry lowered his hands and tugged his blankets closer. “Tell me a story, Tom.”

Tom hesitated, his stern expression sliding away. He moved, leaving the surface of the pencil tin in favour of the open compact, where his voice would be clearer. “What kind of story?”

“Any story.” Harry suppressed a yawn and bent over to scoop the compact up into his hands. Then he flopped back on his bed and set the compact down next to his head so they could stare at each other. “Something with a happy ending.”

Tom told good stories. Harry had once asked if they were stories from Tom’s childhood. Stories told by Tom’s parents. That was the only context Harry knew of for bedtime stories. Only, Tom did not remember anything of his childhood, did not know how he had come to live in the mirror of the Dursley’s home.

“I’ve got a new one,” Tom said with a smile, “a story about three brothers who tricked Death.”

“Death?” asked Harry.

“Yes, Death. Like the grim reaper, Harry.”

“Oh.” That made sense, then. “They tricked Death into leaving them alone?”

“Something like that.” Tom hummed, which Harry took as his cue to be quiet. Then Tom began to speak in a low murmur that filled every crevice of the tiny space. ”There were once three brothers who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…”

Harry snuggled deeper into his bedding, focused intently on the gleam of Tom’s red eyes in the darkness of the cupboard. The tale of the three brothers washed over him like a lullaby, the gentle cadence of Tom’s voice adding a pensive depth to each sentence spoken.

When the story was done, Harry was having difficulty keeping his eyelids open. His body had warmed the spot he was laying in; if he rolled over, he would be greeted with the cold side of his bed.

“Time for sleep,” Tom said kindly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry mumbled. He stretched a hand out from the cocoon of his blankets. The air was cold. It raised goosebumps on Harry’s arm. But this was part of their usual good night routine. Harry touched the tip of his index finger against the icy surface of Tom’s mirror and waited.

In the compact, Tom lifted his hand and pressed a matching fingertip against his side of the mirror.

Their fingers did not touch, but it looked like they might have. Like they could have.

“Feels warm,” Harry mumbled. “Your finger.”

Tom did not need to sleep. Therefore, his voice was perfectly alert as he asked, “Warm?”

“Warm.” Harry’s lashes fluttered, his eyelids heavy with the desire to slide into slumber.

Tom’s hand shifted, pressing flat against the reflective surface. Heat blossomed against Harry’s palm. It felt nice. Safe.

“Good night, Harry.” Tom’s voice was warm, too. A happy feeling settled in Harry’s gut, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“G’night, Tom.” Harry trailed his finger down the surface of the mirror, down Tom’s palm, and let his eyes close.

He fell asleep like that, arm laid out across the floor, the tip of his finger touching the image of Tom’s hand.

* * *

#### IV.

* * *

At school, Harry kept mostly to himself. He ate lunch on his own and did his homework in the quietest corners of the library. Other kids talked of crushes and dating, but Harry wondered if he needed any of that—if he even _wanted_ any of that. Who would look twice at him? Harry was short for his age. Short and skinny, with knobby knees and messy hair. His clothes were baggy and ill-suited for a boy his size.

Tom, by comparison, was tall—also skinny, but in a way that could only be described as ‘lanky’. His clothes were forever neat, forever well-pressed. Harry envied Tom, though he would never say it. Instead, Harry would compare himself to _other_ people, and in this way, the insecurities Harry held back from the world were shared with Tom.

“What other people think does not matter,” Tom insisted. “You and I know the truth. I wouldn’t look twice at any of them, Harry. I only see you.”

Harry thought the world of Tom. It was hard to believe Tom felt the same way about him. If Tom was not trapped in the mirror, they would not have become friends. If Tom lived outside in the real world, he would see Harry as a nobody, just like everyone else did. But Harry wanted to believe Tom’s kind words, and so he was willing to give Tom the benefit of the doubt.

With what little free time he had, Harry delivered newspapers in the neighbourhood. It was difficult to manage deliveries on top of everything else he was expected to do at home, but Harry soldiered through it, using perseverance earned from years of abuse at the Dursleys’ hands. He had a goal in mind, and he would achieve it.

After a long summer of avoiding Dudley’s gang and sweating in the back garden, Harry was permitted to take Dudley’s second bedroom upstairs. There were two reasons for this, Harry suspected. First, he was outgrowing the space under the stairs. Second, living in a cupboard was not _normal,_ and it would not do for other people to find out. Dudley spent most of the year at Smeltings, meaning the second bedroom often collected a layer of dust during its months of disuse.

Harry loved his new room; it opened all sorts of opportunities. He had begun saving his pocket money for a vanity mirror. Tom was also excited to exist in a larger, more permanent form. They could have better conversations if Tom was not confined to the small size of the compact mirror and Harry’s infrequent, awkward trips to the loo.

“Someday we will leave this place,” Tom assured him.

Their hands were no longer the same size; Tom’s fingers extended past the tips of Harry’s. But the warmth was there, almost like touching—Harry couldn’t complain.

“Someday,” Harry repeated. Then he had a thought, one that excited him so badly he pressed both hands against the glass, eager for Tom to know it. “Do you—do you think—?”

Tom frowned, impatient for Harry to get past his nervous stuttering, but lifted his hands to meet Harry’s. Their palms pressed together, the closest they could get to each other.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to leave?” Harry asked, then promptly flushed, cheeks colouring with a rush of blood. “The mirror. Will you?”

Tom’s gaze widened. But the surprise was rapidly wiped away, replaced by a neutral, thoughtful expression. “I don’t know. Maybe I am growing more powerful in here. You can hear me. You can feel—” He flexed his hands against the glass, the glass that heated between their joined hands. “Maybe someday,” he allowed.

“I hope so, Tom.” Harry had never wanted anything more in his entire life. He wanted Tom to be real, to be here with him.

Tom dropped his hands and shifted to lean his forehead against the glass. “I hope so, too.”

Harry wanted to touch his forehead to the mirror, but the sink was in the way. So he could only smile sadly at the reflection and fastidiously wipe his handprints off of the surface. Someday. He couldn’t wait. He could do anything so long as he had Tom with him.

* * *

Some months later, Harry caught a ride to the mall along with Aunt Petunia. Once there, Harry went directly to the secondhand shop, intent on finding the perfect vanity mirror for his room. The perfect mirror for Tom.

There were all sorts of funny, intriguing things to look at in the shop. Old lamps that came in fancy shapes and little porcelain figurines of cats. But aside from those items, there were lots of mirrors. Some big and tall, some fat and short. Harry looked over them all, trying to judge each of them based on their various merits. As Harry browsed, Tom followed along, passing through each surface with a serious twist to his lips.

Eventually, they settled on a plain mirror with three panels built into a sturdy wooden frame. Harry had considered metal at first, but wood was more likely to cushion the glass if someone—namely, Dudley—was to drop it or otherwise try to sabotage it.

“This will do,” Tom said proudly as he admired it from Harry’s little compact mirror.

Harry was excited. Maybe it was girly to have a fancy mirror in his room, but what did it matter? Lots of people already thought he was crazy. It had not escaped the notice of his relatives or his teachers that he had a tendency to mutter under his breath. What they didn’t know, what they would never understand, was that his words were meant for Tom.

“This one,” Harry agreed. He tucked his compact away and carried the big mirror to the front of the shop to pay, where he proceeded to spend fifteen minutes haggling with the shopkeeper. 

From the mirror they were attempting to buy, Tom was able to speak loudly and clearly. Harry parroted each sentence to the shopkeeper as instructed and was pleasantly surprised when it worked. Tom was good with words and very convincing when he liked to be. Harry had not thought that skill could transfer to him; he had always been an awful liar, but it seemed he had been mistaken.

With Tom directly in front of him, it was easier to mimic the tone and facial expression, to say the right words in the right way. In the end, not only did they get the price lowered, but they also walked away with a neat set of vintage cufflinks. Was it really that simple to charm people? Tom certainly acted as though it was simple.

During the ride home, Aunt Petunia eyed Harry’s purchase oddly. Made anxious by her sharp expression, Harry kept careful hold of the box on his lap. He was expected to help his aunt unload groceries when they arrived back at Privet Drive, which meant his mirror would be unattended for a short while. Dudley was still away at school, which meant Harry only had to worry about Uncle Vernon’s reaction.

Luckily for Harry, the house was empty. He helped Aunt Petunia bring all the groceries into the house, then carried his new mirror up to his room, making sure to shut and lock the door behind him. It took a few minutes for him to get the tape off of the box, his fingers fumbling in their eagerness.

Eventually, Harry got the box open and removed the stuffing. Then he lifted the wide mirror out and placed it on top of his dresser. The wood of the mirror did not match the wood of the drawer, but Harry didn’t give one whit about that. Tom’s face was there in the reflection, beaming widely.

“Hello,” Tom said.

“Hello,” Harry whispered back. This greeting was different from all the other times he’d looked at Tom. Here, now, was an image that truly belonged to him. To the both of them. Harry could stare at Tom as long as he wanted to, as long as he liked. Tom could come close and not be limited to the tiny space of the compact mirror. Tom could now talk without distortion for hours and hours, if he wanted to. 

Tom raised his right hand and placed it gently to the glass, his brow lifted in anticipation. Harry scrambled forward, to place his hand atop Tom’s. Their palms met like usual, and there was the familiar sensation of heat that Harry associated with Tom’s touch.

Tom smiled, squishing his hand further against the mirror—

His hand fell through, fingers lined up with Harry’s, pressing into the gaps.

Only falling wasn’t exactly it. There was a film that separated them; a thick, glossy sheen that stretched over Tom’s hand like plastic wrap.

Harry’s jaw dropped open, a gasp of air pulled from his lungs. His other hand came up to clasp at Tom’s, to grasp as tightly as he could.

Tom’s eyes went wild. “Pull,” said Tom, voice hoarse.

Harry pulled. He gripped both of his hands around Tom’s and leant back, yanking with all this might. The slippery substance that covered Tom’s hand refused to budge, however. Harry could not move Tom’s hand at all. It was like tugging on a stone statue that was rooted to the ground.

“It won’t move,” Harry said desperately. “I swear I’m trying, Tom.”

Tom shifted, removing his hand from Harry’s. Then he turned his hand this way and that, examining the look of the mirror wrapped around it like silver water.

“It’s one way,” Tom said after a moment. Then he stretched his hand back out, reaching, pushing. Harry waited with bated breath. Everything up to the wrist was out of the mirror when Tom stopped, his eyes shuttering over. “It stopped me,” he said dully. His hand rotated, his wrist twisting around as the shimmering film clung to each of his fingers.

Harry could only imagine the crushing disappointment. “But this means you’ll be able to leave eventually, won’t it? You started off not being able to do anything, and now—”

“And now,” Tom agreed, his face cheering slightly as he tore his gaze away from his hand to glance back at Harry. “Come hold my hand again.”

Harry obeyed, taking Tom’s right hand in his and lacing their fingers together as best he could despite the funny layer that still kept them apart. “Okay. Now what?”

Tom’s eyes slid shut. He was breathing deeply, slowly. Harry had fallen asleep listening to this sound for years now. It was a part of him as much as his own heartbeat. To hear Tom close to him with such clarity was nothing short of a miracle.

“Nothing,” Tom whispered, his voice feather-soft. “I just wanted to hold it.”

Harry felt his heart pound uncomfortably in his chest. He gave Tom’s hand a tentative squeeze. How long had it been since Tom had touched anyone? Had gotten any kind of physical contact at all?

“I wish I could hug you,” Harry mumbled, the words slipping out.

Tom made a quiet, wounded noise that Harry pretended not to hear. They stood there for a while, hands entwined. Harry stared at Tom’s face, intent on memorizing the slopes and angles, determined for Tom to know that there was someone in the universe who saw him, who cared.

“We’ll _both_ be free someday,” Harry said roughly, hoping that someone, somewhere, was listening to him.

“Someday,” Tom echoed faintly, and for once the irregular edge to his voice was not a product of the medium he was displayed on.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u to [dutch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsevanffs/pseuds/dutch) for beta'ing this chapter for me !!! go read his fics uwu

#### V.

* * *

There was a bruise developing on the right side of his leg. Harry prodded at it with an index finger. It did not hurt unless he touched it. He was fine. He was.

With a morbid sigh, Harry rubbed at his face with the sleeve of his jumper. At school, P.E. class was the absolute worst. The bruise from being kicked wasn’t even the problem. What bothered Harry the most was the embarrassment of being humiliated and knowing that people were laughing at him.

“I need you to take care of yourself, Harry. If I was there, I would protect you—”

“But you’re not _here,_ Tom,” Harry said, harsher than he’d intended. “You’re not! And I’m not about to start—I’m not like that. They’re rotten people and they deserve it, but you don’t understand. I’ll get in trouble. They’ll tell the teachers and put me in detention.”

“Then let them. If they suffer enough, they’ll leave you alone. They’ll learn not to hurt you. By doing nothing, you’re letting them win.”

Harry wrenched the open compact out of his pocket so he could stare into its depths. Tom’s crimson eyes gazed back from underneath the tumble of dark curls that shadowed his forehead.

“I want you to be safe,” Tom said quietly. “Do you know how much it hurts me to be trapped in here, unable to do anything? Unable to help you?”

“I—” Harry didn’t know. What he did know was that it had been unfair of him to say that Tom wasn’t here for him. Tom had not chosen to be stuck in a mirror. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Tom sighed, stepped closer to the glass that separated them. “You are special, Harry. You just don’t see it because you spend your days surrounded by idiots. But I promise I will get you away from this place somehow. Away from your relatives and away from this nasty school.”

_But how?_

Harry breathed in and out. His lungs felt too small, squashed tight in the cavity of his chest. In his hand, the compact trembled.

Tom’s gaze saddened. “Don’t you trust me, Harry?” he asked softly.

A sharp pang of regret shot through Harry, a jolt straight to the heart. “Yes,” Harry said, as quickly as he could. “You know how important you are to me, Tom. I trust you.”

Tom smiled thinly. In the dim light of the overcast skies, his eyes looked nearly black. “So long as that’s true, then everything will work out in the end.”

* * *

That summer, Dudley came home from Smeltings and resumed his favourite pastime of picking on his cousin. Harry had learned from experience that it was better to be out of the house rather than in it—the neighbourhood was large enough for him to avoid Dudley’s gang if he was clever enough and fast enough.

Harry was used to running as fast as his feet could take him if it meant avoiding a beating. If he _was_ caught, it was the result of poor luck, or else the result of his being vastly outnumbered. In that case, there was likely nothing he could have done to prevent himself from being caught.

So when Harry found himself hightailing it down the street the summer of his fifteenth birthday, it was not surprise that filled him when he was caught and shoved to the ground—it was a resigned disappointment. 

“Had a good school year, freak? A nice vacation?” spat Dudley, a vicious smile spreading across his face. It did not make him look very menacing. Dudley smirking was the visual equivalent of a blob of dough with a mouth shape stamped into it.

Harry’s forearms smarted, scraped raw by the unforgiving pavement, but he scrambled to his feet with some effort—just in time for Dudley’s shoe to connect with his ribs. An awful wheeze rushed out of him, knocked loose from his lungs like a pebble tumbling off a tall cliff. Then Harry was rolling backwards, using the momentum from Dudley’s kick to gain some distance.

_“Harry?”_

To Dudley, Harry said, “Shut up,” spitting the words out from between gritted teeth. With one arm wrapped around his chest, Harry kicked his legs outwards and managed a solid knock to Piers’ shins.

But no matter how hard Harry kicked and punched and scratched, there was no advantage to be gained against four boys who were bigger and stronger than him—especially because he was already on the ground.

Harry’s teeth rattled in his skull as he was hauled to his knees by two of Dudley’s friends.

From Harry’s pocket came Tom’s distorted shouting, full of enough despair for the both of them. 

Dudley was still fucking talking, unleashing insult after pathetic insult. Harry could hardly hear him over Tom’s vengeful tirade. Tom was spewing vitriol at Dudley, at Dudley’s friends. Tom was raging at the injustice and lamenting his inability to do anything about it.

“Shut up,” Harry said, this time with a wince as the weak split in his lip stung with the movement. _“Shut up!”_ His head was spinning and he was starting to feel nauseous, his insides churning like an ocean in the midst of a storm.

“Or else what, Harrikins? You going to go crying to yourself in your pretty mirror?”

Harry would have laughed if not for the fist that collided with his stomach. Dudley spent more time admiring his reflection in the mirror than Harry did.

_“—is nothing, Harry, do you hear me? He is nothing. Listen to me, focus on my voice. Do not listen to him—”_

“I’m trying,” Harry wheezed with a gasp. Then horror washed over him, freezing him in place as he realized he’d spoken aloud. Even the boys holding him paused, as though they were also questioning his sanity.

“I—” Harry spluttered in response to the blank look on Dudley’s face. “I’m trying to g-get away.”

_“Harry?”_

Dudley was watching him closely, too closely for Harry’s liking. Those beady eyes narrowed, squinting as Harry panted for breath. “You’re always talking to yourself,” Dudley said slowly, the words slurring together. “I hear you. In your room, late at night. And to that stupid mirror you carry with you.”

“No!” Harry denied, renewing his struggles. “No, I don’t!”

“He’s starking mad,” Piers said, sounding awed even as he kept a firm grasp on Harry’s right arm. “He’s fucking gone round the bend.”

Dudley was still watching Harry with a mixture of detached disgust and wonder. “Search him,” Dudley said, “I bet he’s got it on him.”

Harry thrashed harder, a wild panic overtaking his mind as rational thought fled, replaced by an all-encompassing conviction that he _must not_ lose his compact—Tom’s compact—to Dudley. If he did, then terrible things would happen.

If he did, then—then he would be a failure.

Piers found it first. He tugged the plastic compact loose even as Harry knocked his head back into the other boy’s face.

“Fucking hell,” Dudley growled, “hold him still, I said!”

Harry jammed his elbow backwards and was rewarded with a pained gasp from the boy to his left. Piers tossed the compact to Dudley, who caught it with both hands.

“What’s so special about this, huh?” Dudley asked, turning it over in his hands. He ran a finger over the jagged crack on the right side. There was glue holding it together. Harry had mended it after Dudley’s first attempt to destroy the thing. “It’s just a mirror.”

“It’s mine,“ Harry bit out, still panting, still struggling. “Give it back.”

Dudley’s eyes snapped over to him. “Or what?”

Or nothing. A wave of hopelessness crashed over him. Harry had asked himself that question his entire life: or what? What could he do? Where could he go? His options were limited and his only hope at happiness took place in the distant future.

Tom had given him a reason to enjoy life, as dismal as it was; Tom had given him more than just hope for the future. With Tom, Harry had the promise of a better future, one with Tom by his side.

_“Harry. Listen to me. Fight back.”_

It did not matter that everything sucked at the moment. It would get better. Just because everything seemed hopeless right now, it would not stop him from trying to get away. If Dudley and his friends were going to do this, Harry was going to make it as difficult and painful for them as possible.

With that in mind, Harry lifted his foot and stomped down _hard._

Piers gave a shout, his arms slackening enough for Harry to pull loose and starting hitting. They all fell into a tangle of limbs on the pavement, wrestling and smacking at each other. Harry’s head was spinning again, his vision blurry as his glasses were knocked askew.

“Oi, I’ll break it,” Dudley roared. “I’ll break this, Potter, if you don’t stop—”

Even from paces away, Harry could hear Tom. He would know that voice anywhere, would recognize the tone and the beautiful ferocity of Tom’s anger. Anger that stoked a similar rage within Harry’s chest.

_“Let him. Don’t stop.”_

Harry kept fighting.

* * *

Later that evening, Harry sat in his cupboard, his body aching and sore, his lip split and his right eye puffing. He had not been forced into this space in ages. The nooks and crannies were unfortunately familiar. However, there were more cobwebs than he remembered there being—a further sign that he had not occupied this room for some time.

Harry closed his eyes and winced at the sting as the motion pulled at his face. It was a miracle his glasses hadn’t broken. Not that he cared much about that—if they had been broken, his relatives would have been forced to buy him a new pair. Harry wouldn’t have been able to do his schoolwork without them.

In Harry’s hands was the smashed compact. The mirror was half-gone, chunks of the reflective surface lost to shattered splinters. The piece of mirror that did remain was cracked. Tom’s face was hardly visible in it.

Some time ago, Tom had ceased his raging and gone silent. Harry slumped against the sidewall of the cupboard. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. If he ate anything now, there was all the chance in the world he would throw it up anyway.

“Harry?”

Harry forced his good eye open. “Yes, Tom?” he asked, mindful to keep his voice low. That was what had gotten him into trouble in the first place, after all.

“I’m going to go for a moment. You must stay here and wait for me.”

“Go?” Harry sat up, alarmed, and pried his other eye open so he could stare with incredulity at the boy in the mirror. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back,” Tom promised. He laid a hand against the mirror’s fractured surface. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes. Always. I do, Tom, but—”

“Then wait for me.”

Harry couldn’t argue. His eyes met Tom’s red ones, those crimson eyes so full of affection, affection for _Harry,_ and he knew that there was no one else in the world who he could imagine a future with.

Harry touched the tip of his index finger against the mirror. Tom’s hand pressed back, an unnatural heat emanating from the glossy barrier between them.

And then Tom vanished, pulling away from Harry and disappearing from the confines of the mirror. Or, at least, from the bit of Tom’s world that Harry could see.

They had not spoken much about the place where Tom lived. Tom did not like to speak on it; he seemed uncomfortable when the topic was broached, and so Harry had left it alone. Tom was there when Harry went to bed, and he was there when Harry woke up. That was all Harry needed, and he wouldn’t dare to ask for more.

Unsure when Tom would return to him, Harry stared at the mirror until his eyes grew tired of staying open. Then Harry carefully set the compact on the floor and shuffled back against the wall, shutting his eyes. Tom would call out when he came back; Harry just had to be patient.

With a careful hand, Harry felt at his chest, prodding and pressing tenderly against his ribs. Nothing seemed too out of place. He was just going to bruise something awful come morning.

In the morning, Harry would be let out of the cupboard to help with meal preparations, and then he might be permitted to return to his room. His room, which he had begun to take for granted—though in fairness he had never expected to be sent back to his cupboard. 

Perhaps that was his own idiocy, then. Harry sighed. He should have known better. Tom would berate him for thinking like that, but Tom was no longer here. 

Was no longer here right now, Harry reminded himself. Tom was going to come back.

Harry shivered and curled up, gingerly wrapping his arms around his knees. He did not like to dwell on his own misery; it made him bitter and angry. Harry didn’t like feeling that way, did not enjoy the taste of bile that rose whenever he thought of how his relatives treated him. If not for Tom, he might have come to accept the poor treatment, to weather it as though he deserved it, but with Tom by his side, he knew better. 

Tom helped him believe in himself.

Harry licked at his chapped lips, then swore colourfully as the split smarted. He’d forgotten about that. With the mess of everything that hurt at the moment, this injury had slipped his mind. At least it was summer, he thought to himself. At least no one else had to see him. Making up excuses to tell the faculty at school was a constant pain.

A yawn bubbled up in his throat; with some difficulty, Harry suppressed it. Stretching his mouth out would be a bad idea. The indication of his weariness was not lost on him, however. The hour was growing late, and Harry was frankly exhausted after the day’s events. Really, his silver lining was that he’d given as good as he’d gotten. Dudley would probably cry for days about his boo-boos while Aunt Petunia fussed over him.

The mental image of Dudley crying and sniffling while Aunt Petunia cooed and fretted was amusing. Harry entertained himself with this scenario for a while, half-dozing while he did so. Without any conscious effort on his part, he dropped off to sleep.

* * *

Some time later, Harry woke to his name being called. Harry made an unintelligible noise of incoherence, bumping his head against the sidewall as he jerked upright.

“Be careful, Harry. It’s only me.”

Harry stretched without thinking and let out a soft noise of pain.

“Harry?” came Tom’s worried voice.

“One moment,” Harry mumbled. He touched lightly at his face, rubbing at his good eye with the back of his left hand. He still ached all over, but the throb of it was duller now.

Tom was waiting in the mirror, his lips pressed into a frown.

“Where did you go? If I can ask.” Harry was curious; Tom had never spoken of going places before.

“Around the house,” Tom said dismissively. Then he paused and added, “I discovered something. While you were sleeping, that is.”

“Oh?” Harry felt hurt upon hearing that Tom had been doing things and trying things without him.

“At first I thought that I could only exist in surfaces that _you_ can see. But a while ago, I realized that was not the case. I visit any reflective surface in the house, even if you aren’t there.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that. His mind wasn’t fully awake, and he was fairly certain that even if he _had_ been awake, he still would have trouble following the conversation. “So you’ve been going for walks?”

“There’s not much point. Other people are boring. No one can see me or hear me except for you, and I’d much rather be here with you.” Tom smiled, a little curl to his lips that tugged at Harry’s heart. “So I didn’t bother with it anymore. I want to be here when you wake, which means I can’t go very far.”

Harry tried to smile back, albeit nervously. This still did not explain why Tom had left so suddenly. “Where did you go just now, then?”

Tom’s smile shifted, morphing into a sharper, meaner version of itself. “You see, Harry, because I decided that leaving your side wasn’t useful to me, I had forgotten all about it. However, now we can touch each other, and touching is not the same as seeing and hearing.”

The point of this was still lost on him. “You went and touched something else?”

“I’ve done much more than that,” Tom promised. Then his eyes darkened, the red irises thinning out around endless black pupils. “Your cousin _will_ think twice before trying to harm you again.”

* * *

Harry was not let out of the cupboard until just before lunch the next day. He was given leftovers from the night before and told to stay in his room. This suited Harry just fine; at last, he could see Tom properly and find out exactly what had happened with Dudley.

As Harry tromped up the stairs, he noticed that the door to Dudley’s bedroom was slightly ajar. Tom’s compact was in Harry’s pocket; Tom said nothing even as Harry slowed his ascent towards the top of the stairs.

In the crack of the doorway, Dudley’s face appeared. Harry was pleased to note that his cousin’s portly face did have some nasty bruising marring it.

Dudley blinked once, twice, the movement sluggish. Then he said in a rough voice, “Y-you keep your freakishness away from me!” and slammed the door. Harry stood there, dumbfounded, as he heard the sound of the lock clicking shut.

Tom’s muffled voice emerged from his pocket. _“Keep going, Harry.”_

Harry walked to his room in a daze. He closed the door softly behind him, then walked over to his dresser so he could shove it towards the doorway. The exertion of doing so aggravated nearly all of his injuries, but Harry endured it. He did not want to be interrupted. Harry pushed the dresser over until it blocked the doorway, then set Tom’s compact on top, making sure that the cracked mirror was facing the door. An alarm system of sorts.

“I’m going to change,” Harry said aloud as he went and pulled out a new set of clothes from his dresser.

Tom had already migrated to the vanity mirror. “Take your time.”

Harry stripped his clothes off. The t-shirt with blood specks. The jeans stained with dirt. Both items tossed into a pile on the floor while Harry struggled into a fresh shirt. He was well aware of Tom’s watchful gaze. It had never embarrassed him before; in many ways, he had grown up with Tom. But it had been a while since he’d had injuries this bad. Harry was conscious of each mottled bruise on his body as he tried to dress as quickly as possible.

“Slow down,” Tom said, voice gravelly. “You’ll hurt yourself. Breathe, Harry.”

Automatically, Harry took a deep breath. His head cleared enough for him to realize that his panic was not helping him. Harry raised his arms and finished working his way into his shirt. It hung loosely on his frame, clinging with static in some places. Harry picked at the fabric in a morose manner.

Here he was, dressed in a worn grey shirt with a hole on the shoulder and a plain pair of blue boxer briefs. His legs were skinny and spotted with purples and yellows. “I’m a mess,” Harry said without thinking. It was the truth.

“Don’t say that.”

Harry inhaled slowly, summoning his courage, and glanced at the vanity mirror on his side table. Tom’s eyes were intent, deadly serious. His face was handsome as ever, free of flaws, unharmed and untainted.

There was a tightness in Harry’s chest, a twisted shame that stemmed from both his appearance and his situation. He felt inadequate even though Tom was only an image in a mirror.

Tom’s face softened. “Come here, Harry.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest. He wasn’t finished dressing. But something in Tom’s expression told him not to argue. Regardless, Harry could never refuse Tom a request like that. Harry shuffled around his bed and sat down on it, wrapping a gentle arm around his lower ribs. “Yes?” he whispered.

“Bring me closer.”

Harry obeyed, reaching out and angling the mirror so it sat at the very edge of the table. So that they were looking at each other.

The way Tom was looking at him—it made Harry feel exposed. Like he was being pried open, all his thoughts and feelings laid bare. Tom saw him, saw all of him. The good parts and the ugly parts. Tom cared about him despite everything. Despite ugliness. Harry wanted to look away, to drop his gaze and wallow in his shame and negativity, but he found that he could not.

Tom raised a hand. Harry was familiar with this motion; he raised his own arm to mirror the action. Then Tom clicked his tongue in a negative way that made Harry flush and lower his hand. He’d wanted for them to hold hands, only—

“Harry. You’re overthinking again. Please wait for a second. Soon you will see what I mean.”

Harry squirmed in place. He wanted to suck in his lower lip and worry at it, but with his injuries, that was out of the question. So Harry could only tremble as Tom’s palm met the glass, pushing outwards. Slowly, the mirror stretched to accommodate the extrusion, the glass warping and thinning out like chewing gum, like molasses. Tom reached further and further, his hand extending.

It was a shock when his palm met the side of Harry’s cheek, soft and featherlight, like Harry was made of fine porcelain. Tom had his entire arm outside of the mirror frame. He was cupping Harry’s face with palm and fingers, stroking with his thumb over the bruise that marred Harry’s cheekbone.

The hand was bare, almost real, touching him—

Harry’s heart was racing, faster than it had when he’d been running for his life, faster than when Dudley had been laying into him with kicks and punches. 

“T-Tom? What—”

“Shhhh.” Tom’s voice was strained. “Just relax, Harry, and let me take care of you.”

Harry trusted Tom more than anyone in the world; more than himself, even. He responded to Tom’s directive immediately, allowing the tension to drain from his shoulders as he narrowed the noise of the world to only Tom, to the hand that cradled him with kindness and the eyes that gazed upon him with—with love.

Harry thought it was love.

Tom traced patterns over Harry’s face, dragged fingers through Harry’s unruly hair. The shine of the mirror pulled and tugged, stretching thin until it clung like a second skin, giving Tom’s arm an unnatural sheen.

Harry leant into Tom’s touch, passing himself into Tom’s care, knowing that Tom was the only person in the world he cared about, the only person he loved, could ever love, would ever love.

“I will keep you safe,” Tom whispered. “My Harry.”

Harry breathed out, let his worries dissipate, let Tom’s caress lull him into sensations he had never experienced before—the joy of knowing physical contact that did not bring harm, the touch of a hand that passed over his skin like he was someone to be valued, to be adored.

Tom’s finger danced across Harry’s lip, mindful of the wound there. “These will heal,” Tom murmured. “And you will never know harm at their hands again. I won’t allow it. They can try to hide from me all they like, but I exist everywhere. You will never be without me.”

Harry felt wetness stain his cheeks, but Tom wiped that away, too.

“Do you trust me?” Tom asked, more alluring than the softest melody. His voice was rich and enchanting, the perfect cadence to fill Harry’s heart with hope and longing.

“I do,” Harry said. “I trust you with everything.” Everything and anything, including his life.

Tom brushed his thumb against the opening of Harry’s mouth, pressing down with the pad of his finger as though they were sharing a kiss. “Then wait for me.”

Harry was boneless, his mind fuzzy and satiated by Tom’s act of comfort. “Okay.”

The arm withdrew, the hand vanishing back into the mirror, flattening into an image once more.

Tom lifted his hand a final time, touching his fingertips to his mouth. Then he pressed those same fingers against the glass between them. “Do not leave this room, no matter what. Do not leave until I come back. Keep the dresser in front of the door.”

“Okay.” Harry slid backwards on the bed so he could pull his feet up off the floor.

Tom smiled. He looked as beautiful as an angel. “Wait for me, and I will come back to you.”

Harry nodded. The mirror emptied of Tom’s presence; only Harry’s reflection remained. Harry eyed his messy hair and splotchy face, wondering what Tom saw in him.

The quiet was nerve-wracking, but Tom would come back soon. Harry shut his eyes, as he had before, and focused on the memory of Tom’s touch, on the sensations that lingered in delicate trails all over his skin.

Outside the door, Harry heard screaming. Screaming and shouting and cursing and crying—not from Dudley, surprisingly, but from Harry’s aunt and uncle. Tearful pleading and shrieks of pain. The sounds ought to have stirred some deeper emotion in him, but Harry did not feel present in his body, did not feel as though the reality of what was occurring around him mattered. 

What mattered was Tom. Tom was protecting him. Tom was taking care of him.

Harry had never been able to save himself from his abusers, but Tom could. Tom could do what Harry could not, and Harry would let him.

* * *

#### VI.

* * *

Tom had the entire upper portion of his torso extended out of the mirror, his elbows and forearms braced on the wooden surface of Harry’s dresser. There were large glass panes all over Harry’s room. Propped against the walls, sitting on the furniture. Tom could be anywhere he wanted, exist on any surface, be as close as he could to Harry.

“Seven years,” Harry said, fervent, “it has to be, Tom. Smashing a mirror gives you seven years of bad luck and—and we’ve known each other almost six years now, haven’t we? You get stronger all the time! It has to be. It has to.”

No one entered Harry’s room without permission. No one looked directly at Harry unless he talked to them. It was an odd experience after years of tiptoeing around Number 4, Privet Drive, but Harry had adapted to it. He was used to his relatives gazing at him with disgust and hatred. Adding fear to the mix only made sense, didn’t it?

Besides, it was not him they were truly afraid of. It was Tom who struck fear into them. It was Tom who kept Harry safe. At first, the Dursleys were not able to see or hear Tom, which meant that Harry had to function as Tom’s mouthpiece. But recently, things had changed again. Tom’s voice was now audible to all members of the house.

It was satisfying to hear the Dursleys’ shrieks of fear about a strange silver man who emerged from their entrance hall mirror to punish them. Now that Tom could speak, he took great pleasure in berating them for their past treatment of Harry. Now that Tom had power, the Dursleys were the ones held captive in their own home.

Tom pursed his lips, then unfurled his arms, laying his palms flat out. Harry got up and walked over, placing his hands into Tom’s. Tom’s hands were larger than his; long fingers curled around Harry’s wrist. “So once the seven-year mark has passed, you think I will be able to leave?”

“I don’t see why not.” Harry flushed, wondering if Tom knew something he did not.

Tom sighed. “The last thing I want is for you to get your hopes up, Harry. You understand why, don’t you? If I could be certain—”

“I know,” Harry said quickly. “I know.” Tom would not let anything stop them from being together.

“If I could be certain,” Tom repeated patiently, “then I would make plans for us. But we don’t know what will happen. I won’t risk what we have here.”

The tentative peace that Tom had established using threats and violence. Harry swallowed, nerves aflutter in the pit of his stomach. “How long will we be here, then?”

“As long as it takes. If nothing happens at the end of our seven years together, then I’ll find another way.” Tom grimaced. “We will take what’s owed from your relatives and go somewhere else together, if that’s what you need.”

Harry regretted his hasty question. He hadn’t meant to make Tom upset. “I’m sure everything will work out, Tom. I have faith. You’ll figure something out. I—I don’t mind if we have to wait here while you figure that out. What’s most important to me is that we stay together.”

Tom trailed his hands up Harry’s forearms and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I knew you’d understand, Harry. You’re so kind to me.”

Harry reddened further. “I want you to be free. You deserve that.”

Tom shook his head. “I take care of you, don’t I? And you help me in return.”

Tom tugged Harry towards him until they were nearly chest to chest. One of Tom’s hands curled around the nape of Harry’s neck while the other rested on his shoulder. Physical contact never failed to send a thrill down Harry’s spine. He relished in each touch that Tom gave him. Every touch… every kiss.

Tom smiled charmingly and canted his head to the side. “Harry? You haven’t answered me.”

“Sorry.” Harry let out a huff of air to try and get his head on straight. “You do. Take care of me.”

“I do.” Fingers tangled themselves in Harry’s hair, guiding Harry’s head closer still. “I always do.”

Harry’s breaths stuttered. “You do,” he repeated, hardly louder than a whisper.

Tom kissed him. It was gentle at first, sweet and warm against Harry’s lips. Tom was always careful with him. Careful not to go too fast or take things too far. Still, Harry found kissing to be awkward, as much as he enjoyed it. He never knew what to do with himself, and so it was a relief when Tom took charge.

But even with that, there was an undercurrent of oddness when they kissed. It wasn’t normal to kiss someone with only half their body resting on top of your dresser. Sometimes, Tom tasted faintly of glass and metal. Harry felt guilty whenever he was reminded that Tom was not _quite_ with him. Despite the progress of their relationship, they were not properly together.

Harry often worried over what would happen between them if Tom was never able to leave the mirror. Already they had discovered that Tom could not spend prolonged periods of time outside. It drained him to do so, not that they would ever tell the Dursleys that. Tom claimed he was building a tolerance for it, and Harry didn’t doubt this, but it was still not a permanent solution.

Tom nipped at Harry’s lower lip. A tiny bite of teeth that carried Harry back to reality. To the way Tom looked at him with desire. Tom _wanted_ him. No one had ever wanted him before.

Harry loved Tom with all his heart, but if Tom could not leave the mirror, they would be forced to continue on like this—with only a taste of what a full life together could look like. Tom would not be content with that. It would break Harry’s heart to know that Tom’s brilliance would be forever lost. Life in the mirror was not enough. Not for someone like Tom, who had aspirations and the talent to achieve them.

Tom pulled away and lifted both hands to Harry’s face. “Are you alright, love? You seem distant today.”

Harry pried Tom’s hands off of him and held them, rubbing his thumbs over Tom’s knuckles. “Sorry. I was lost in my head again.”

Tom tsked lightly. “I suppose I shall endeavour to distract you better, then.” He leant across to nuzzle against Harry’s jawline. Harry could feel the ghost of Tom’s breath waft down his neck and collarbone.

Suddenly, Harry had an overwhelming urge to crush their bodies together, so much as was possible for them to do so. So he wrapped Tom up in an awkward hug, burying his face into Tom’s hair. This could not end badly between them. After all of the tragedies they had suffered, this could _not_ end badly.

“I love you, Tom. I love you no matter what happens.”

Tom went still. Then he folded Harry into his embrace, one of his hands holding Harry’s head against his shoulder, cradling it. “I will always be with you,” Tom promised fiercely. “Even if it is only like this.”

* * *

As Harry’s seventeenth birthday neared, the Dursleys grew restless. Anytime Aunt Petunia entered a room to find Tom there, she looked like she wanted to faint.

Harry didn’t care anymore. He had lived in fear for nearly fifteen years of his life in his house. Whatever Tom did to keep them in line, whatever injury he inflicted, it represented only a fraction of the abuse that Harry had endured. The endless chores and insults from his aunt, the beatings from his uncle, the bullying from Dudley and his friends. 

Tom’s existence at Privet Drive grew bolder with each passing day, week, and month. He worked tirelessly at pushing his limits, determined as he was to be free of his prison.

Then, one day, Tom emerged from the mirror entirely.

“It’s too early,” was the first thing Tom said as Harry stumbled into his arms.

It took Harry far too long to squash his joy down. There was moisture building up in his eyes. “What? What do you mean? Tom, you’re _free—”_

“It hasn’t been seven years yet.” Tom paused, his arms tightening around Harry’s waist. “When you broke the mirror in the entrance hall, it was in the middle of winter. It’s hardly July.”

Tom was right. Of course, he was right. “Maybe it’s early?”

“I can feel the pull. I’m still connected.” Tom planted a kiss atop Harry’s forehead, right over the messy bangs. “But I’m grateful to have you in my arms all the same.”

Harry hid his face against the side of Tom’s neck. Breathed in the sterile scents that he associated with Tom’s embrace. “I am, too.”

Tom’s hand swept up and down his back, rubbing slow circles. “Why don’t we head downstairs and visit your lovely relatives? I think such a momentous occasion ought to be shared.”

Harry lifted his head enough to stare into Tom’s deep red eyes. “The Dursleys?”

“Yes.” Tom was staring over Harry’s head at one of the many mirrors in the room. He was smiling at their reflections, joined together at last in a real embrace. “Won’t they be so pleased to see me in a corporeal form?”

Harry didn’t answer, but he did cling to Tom, squeezing Tom’s waist and snuggling close. 

“I’ve been limited in many ways until this moment,” Tom continued, “but now, I believe we can have some real fun.” He leant back so he could trace the tip of his index finger down Harry’s cheek. “I promised you they would pay for your suffering, Harry. I keep my promises.”

“You’ve done plenty,” Harry assured him. He bumped his nose against Tom’s jawline. “You’ve done a lot for me, Tom.” 

“It will feel good,” Tom crooned. “I promise it will. You won’t have to lift a finger, my love. I’ll do all the work. You need only watch and take pleasure from their misery.” He kissed Harry’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “The delivery of justice by my hand.”

Harry shivered, his hands balling in the stiff fabric of Tom’s shirt as anxiety knotted in his chest. “People will notice, won’t they? People will hear them.”

“I’ll be careful. No one will know except for us. Isn’t that how it goes for them?” Tom’s voice went cold. “No marks in visible places, nothing serious enough to require the hospital. Isn’t that what they did to you? I’ll cover my tracks, Harry. I’m much cleverer than they are. Nothing bad will happen. Don’t you trust me?”

“Okay. I trust you.” Harry tucked his face back into Tom’s shoulder and breathed in.

Tom’s hand threaded through Harry’s hair, petting gently. “Perfect. Let’s go downstairs.”

Harry was released from Tom’s embrace. Their hands joined, their fingers woven together. Tom led Harry to the door.

Everything was going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah yeah a third chapter. no one here is surprised except for me, in a perpetual state of surprised-ness over my inability to keep things short ha


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thank you to dutch for the beta!
> 
> warnings for this final chapter: murder, depression, trauma?, self-destructive behaviour?, insanity?
> 
> i'm not sure exactly what else to warn for other than it's not super happy, so please be careful if you are especially sensitive.

####  **VII.**

* * *

Life was different after Tom exited the mirror for the first time.

Aunt Petunia rarely spoke now. Tom had done something to her tongue and throat—Harry wasn’t sure exactly what. After a while, it had become too difficult for him to watch the torture Tom inflicted on them. According to Tom, she was not suffering any physical barrier—rather, it was a mental one. She had developed a negative association with speaking, and thus had become unable to do so.

“It serves her right, Harry, for saying such horrible things about you. What is it that adults always tell us?” Tom tapped a finger to his chin in a mockery of pensive thought. “That if one has nothing nice to say, they shouldn’t say anything at all? No wonder she has no reason to speak. Every word she utters is garbage.”

Dudley had taken to Tom’s rule over the house better than either of his parents had. He was deathly afraid of Tom, and this healthy fear had instilled a decent amount of caution into him. Dudley hid whenever possible, whether it was by retreating to another room or hiding behind his parents.

Still, no amount of cowardice could save Dudley from the diet of near starvation that Tom had imposed on the household. Perhaps Tom thought that if Dudley slimmed down enough, he could be stuffed into the cupboard under the stairs.

Nowadays, Tom spent most of his time outside of the mirror, but it wore on him. Harry noticed because Tom had never appeared tired before. In the mirror, Tom was always full of energy, constantly awake and aware. Now, though, Tom could go about for most of the day, using the numerous mirrors around the house as touchstones, but eventually he would crash.

Two or three times, Harry had watched as Tom was yanked into the nearest mirror as though pulled by an invisible force. Thankfully, the Dursleys had not seen anything, but after those incidents, Tom had taken more care to not push himself too far.

When school resumed for the year, neither Dudley nor Harry attended class. Tom had told Uncle Vernon to request they be homeschooled. For Dudley, this was a nightmare. The scope of his life had narrowed drastically over the past few months, and the loss of school was yet another freedom snatched away as punishment for his treatment of Harry.

For Harry, the loss of school did not matter much. He was confident he could pass his exams if he was permitted to study in the safety of his room. He would do even better because he had Tom to help him. Tom was smart and learned things much faster than he did. Tom would have been a prodigy if he’d gone to school rather than simply hitching alongside Harry’s subpar education.

What Harry liked best about not having to go to school, though, was that he could now spend all day with Tom. Since Tom had taken control of the household, Harry spent most of his time in his room, away from the Dursleys and away from the parts of the house that only contained bad memories.

At night, Tom would curl up behind him, bracketing Harry’s body with his own, the two of them resting together. There was Tom’s chin tucked over his head and the steady beat of Tom’s heart against his back. Never in his life had Harry felt safer and more loved.

Tom often peppered kisses over Harry’s face and wandered attentive hands over Harry’s body. Harry drank in every moment, every point of contact between them. The way Tom treated him was worshipful, if such a word could be applied here. Harry never felt particularly beautiful or special, but under Tom’s gaze, in Tom’s hands, he could try to believe it.

“My Harry,” Tom would murmur, eyes hooded with endearment, with desire.

Harry could not live without Tom. Tom was in his head, in his heart and soul. Harry gave everything of himself to Tom, knowing that Tom would treasure it. The miracle of Tom’s affection for him was not to be wasted. If Harry had doubts about himself, those doubts would be set aside because Tom wanted them to be.

“I love you,” Harry said, frequently and with fervour. “I love you, Tom.”

Even though Tom never spoke the words in return, it didn’t upset Harry. Tom did love, he just loved with his actions rather than with his words. Tom loved with the gasp of Harry’s name on his lips when they lay together in bed. Tom loved with his angelic smile, a smile reserved only for Harry, and with his sweet words of adoration and devotion. Promises that Harry was the only one for him. Promises that they would always be together.

Sometimes, Harry recalled the tale of the three brothers that Tom had once told him as a bedtime story. The second brother had been separated from his love by what Tom had described as a mystical veil. She had grown sad and cold in a world where she did not belong.

But Tom was not sad here—he was _happy_ here. He belonged here with Harry. Tom loved in many ways, in ways that were not typical. But their relationship was not typical anyways, Harry reasoned, so it all would make sense in the end.

* * *

Tom twirled the knife in his hand, the smirk of his mouth tilting ominously. Harry was seated at the dinner table, hands clasped in his lap. Across from him sat the Dursleys in all their anxious glory.

“Remember a few years ago when you sent Harry outside to shovel the snow?” Tom asked rhetorically. “Remember how you sent him there, dressed in clothes hardly appropriate for the weather? In fact, it’s rather generous to call them clothes to begin with. I’d liken them to rags, but again, that description is more generous than I’m willing to permit.”

The first snowfall of the season had arrived last night. Harry could not recall that last time was excited to see snow—any fun he had with it was offset by the negativity of having to work in the snow and put up with Dudley’s snow-fueled antics. Harry had gotten snowballs to the face multiple times over the course of his childhood. Tom had neither forgotten nor forgiven any of it.

Now, Harry felt a different kind of dread when he thought about the snow outside. A dread mixed with excitement and guilt.

From where he stood at the head of the table, Tom turned his attention to Uncle Vernon. “As the man of the house, I’d say it would be your duty to clear the driveway. Not the job of the child in your care.”

Uncle Vernon’s face purpled, but he knew better than to speak a word against Harry while in Tom’s presence.

“Why don’t you get to it,” Tom said lightly, tilting his head towards the door. “The snow won’t shovel itself, after all. And I’ll keep your wife and son here, where it’s warm.” Tom smiled beatifically. “Or perhaps I’ll set them in the backyard without their coats, depending on how long you dither.”

Harry glanced at his aunt and cousin. They were both looking at the table rather than at Uncle Vernon. They were afraid, and rightfully so.

Uncle Vernon was used to solving his problems with his anger, with his fists and the strength of his voice. But Tom did not cower; Tom was unaffected by physical blows and stood unflinching when he was shouted at. Uncle Vernon had tried, but fists and sharp objects failed to make any mark on Tom. Not to mention that any sharp objects in the house contained reflective surfaces for Tom to take advantage of.

At the very start, Tom had been clear that if anything was to happen to Harry, anything at all, he would not hesitate to murder the entire family in cold blood. Harry understood the need for such a threat, even if he disliked it. The only way for the Dursleys to hurt Tom was by hurting him.

Still, the threat of Harry coming to harm existed, so Tom kept Harry away from the Dursleys whenever possible. Harry was only too happy to agree to this. Tom had said that his threat was empty, that it was just a line to ensure the Dursleys’ good behaviour, but Harry was certain that if something _did_ happen to him, Tom would not hesitate to put the Dursleys down.

Uncle Vernon rose from his seat and lumbered for the door. He shot a dark glance at Harry before he departed. It was a look loaded with hatred. Harry shifted uncomfortably, then stood as well, drawing Tom’s attention.

“Harry?”

“I’m going to get a glass of water.”

Tom frowned, stepping over to set a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Hot water, then. I don’t want you getting sick.”

“Okay.”

Tom pecked Harry on the cheek and gave him a nudge. “Go on, then. I’ll mind these two.” His nose wrinkled slightly with distaste as he gazed at Aunt Petunia and Dudley.

Harry nodded. “Okay.” He went into the kitchen and set about boiling water in the kettle. The familiar task helped ground him. By the time the water was done and he was pouring it out into a mug, his breathing had eased. Harry sipped at his hot water and glanced out the window. The backyard was draped in a blanket of pure white snow.

Soon, their seven years would be up. Harry was anxious just thinking about it. What would happen? How long could they go on like this? Tom’s treatment of the Dursleys could not last forever; someone would snap—either Tom or the Dursleys. Now that the Dursleys were no longer a threat to him, Harry was supposed to feel safe. 

In many ways, he _was_ safe. Tom took care of him and kept him safe. But it wasn’t a perfect safety, and it did not explain the awful sense of dread that Harry felt whenever he looked at an empty mirror. He was acclimated to Tom’s presence—both in the mirror and out of it—and so it was odd to think that someday he would see Tom more often in person than in reflections.

* * *

Tom did not celebrate Christmas or any other holiday, but Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia built the Christmas tree anyways—purely because Tom wanted Harry to have a proper holiday. The holiday that Harry deserved, according to Tom. One filled with warmth and presents.

The fireplace in the living room was on almost every evening. Tom swaddled Harry in blankets and ordered hot drinks to be brought over. Harry sweated and flushed and protested, but he drank hot cocoa with marshmallows and nibbled on the candy canes Tom pressed into his hands. It was nice to be looked after, even if the circumstances around it were not exactly normal or comfortable.

Whenever Tom grew tired of seeing the Dursleys around he would order them to their rooms so that he and Harry could sit in the living room alone. Alone together in the quiet, like it was their house rather than the Dursleys’. Someday, Tom promised repeatedly, they would have their own real house together.

Harry warmed his hands in the direction of the fire. Tom was never hot or cold; his body ran at a constant, average temperature. Heat affected Tom in that he could absorb it, that if he lingered outside for too long he would be cold to the touch, or if he sat by the fire his skin would warm. It was great for cuddling—Harry’s body heat would warm Tom, who would store the heat and radiate it back.

This was partly why Harry liked it best when they were alone. When it was only the two of them, Tom liked to have Harry on his lap. His arms would wrap tightly around Harry’s waist. He would bury his face against the juncture of Harry’s neck and shoulder. It felt so good. Harry was not ashamed to say that he enjoyed it. The caress of Tom’s hands sent shivers and tremors down his spine in a funny, pleasant way. 

Harry had gone without gentle touches for so long that _any_ touch from Tom was heavenly. Tom only touched him to be kind, to make him happy. Harry cherished all of the nice feelings that came from spending time with Tom. He would never get enough of them.

“Do you remember how long we have left?” Harry asked drowsily. The fire was crackling, merry sparks fluttering through the air. His mug of hot cocoa had been empty for a while, its contents sitting warm in his belly.

Tom stroked a hand down Harry’s forearm, fingers trailing downwards in wiggly patterns that made Harry want to squirm. “I’m keeping track. Don’t you worry.”

Harry shifted backwards, bumping his head against the armrest. He was half laid out across Tom’s lap, half propped up by the couch. Tom was watching him with fondness, like he could stare for hours and never grow tired of looking. Harry’s face was already flush with heat, or else he thought he might blush from the attention.

“How long, though?” Harry asked again, suppressing a yawn deep in the back of his throat. He did not want to go to bed just yet, and if he yawned, Tom would attempt to move them. Harry was perfectly content with where they were.

Tom’s hand shifted to take hold of Harry’s. Then his head dipped, his lips touching Harry’s forehead once, twice, three times, each kiss in a different spot. Then he kissed the tip of Harry’s nose; Harry wrinkled his face up in response.

“Hmm?” Tom said. He moved his lips to Harry’s cheek, one then the other.

“Tom—” Harry gave Tom’s shoulder a little push. “You’re being distracting.”

Tom laughed. The sound of it, so simple, filled Harry with an unfathomable amount of joy. “You, Harry, are the distracting one.” He nudged at Harry’s cheek with his nose and gave Harry’s hand a squeeze before releasing it. Then his arm slid around Harry’s waist, tugging them closer together. “How am I to focus on anything when I have you in my arms? All I want to do is kiss you and tell you how lovely you are.”

_“Tom,”_ Harry said, now embarrassed. He didn’t like compliments. Even coming from Tom, they made him feel uncomfortable. Tom kissed the corner of his mouth, then nuzzled along his jawline. Harry clung to Tom’s arm—he could feel his heart rate increase in response to Tom’s ministrations.

Tom breathed out, a soft gust of air that passed down the column of Harry’s throat. It was not too warm—just a light breeze brushing by. Then Tom’s head tilted further so he could transfer his attention there, to the neck, to the pulse point, to the soft skin covered in faint marks. Even the teeth that nipped and scraped felt nice; a solid reminder of who Harry was with. Who he belonged with.

As Tom continued to lavish attention on him, Harry began squirming. The only thing holding him still was Tom’s arm, clamped in place over his waist. “Ah,” Harry said, though his mind was quickly losing focus. “I still want you to answer me.”

“I don’t want you to worry.” Tom’s voice was careful, measured. Harry could hear the underlying tightness in it. “Harry, darling, let me take care of you.” 

There was a melancholy to the words that drained the fight out of Harry. He couldn’t argue with Tom during a moment like this, not when Tom was so intent on changing the subject. Not when Tom was being so kind. So when Tom kissed him, Harry gave in and let it happen.

* * *

Shortly before the winter season had begun, Tom had installed locks on the outside of each door. A safety precaution, he’d said. Every evening, Tom ordered the Dursleys to their rooms and locked them in. It became ritualistic, habitual. Lock on the master bedroom and lock on Dudley’s bedroom. Check both locks, then go to bed. Tom would stay with him until he fell asleep, and then Tom would disappear into the mirror to rest. 

At least, that was what Harry assumed—sometimes he woke to Tom’s body wrapped around his. Almost like normal, almost like there was no mirror at all.

Harry could stroke tentative fingers over the back of Tom’s hand, tracing lines and patterns. Tom was awake, watching him, but he didn’t seem to mind Harry’s fingers wandering abstractly across the surface of his arm.

“Do I feel smooth?” Tom had once asked. “Like glass?”

“Not really,” Harry had lied. His imagination was good enough for the both of them. Tom was still warm and real, even if the angular planes of his face often caught the light in odd ways.

Harry could care less what form Tom took so long as he was there. To Harry, Tom was the most important person in the world. He loved Tom more than anything—he would have given his life if it meant that Tom could live outside of the mirror and in the real world.

It was an extreme thought, borderline morbid in its truthfulness, but Harry stuck to it in the privacy of his head. No matter what, he vowed, he would see Tom free of his shining prison, just as Tom had seen him free of the Dursleys.

So Harry loved, loved with all his heart. He gave Tom his heart, his mind, his body; he trusted implicitly and knew he would follow wherever Tom led him. Whatever Tom wanted them to do, wherever Tom wanted them to go. Harry had no ties to this house, to his family. His world revolved around the boy who had once smiled at him from a mirror and mouthed a friendly greeting.

Then one day, Harry woke up alone.

* * *

####  **AFTER.**

* * *

The room was cold. Chill nipped at Harry’s toes, which had kicked loose from the pile of blankets that Tom insisted on. Maybe Tom had a point, though Harry would never admit to it. If Harry admitted to being cold, Tom would never let him forget it.

Yawning, Harry stretched his arms and legs, tucking his feet back into the safe space of warm blankets. His arms and legs met with the cold side of the bed. Harry grimaced and curled up automatically, folding his body in on itself. Then he opened his eyes and looked at one of his room’s many mirrors.

Tom was not there.

Slowly, then, Harry’s body went numb, his heart racing with anxiety. No, he told himself, as he had other times when Tom had gone missing for longer than was comfortable. No, Tom was just somewhere else.

He was being silly. He was worrying too much.

Harry wiggled against his bedsheets, burrowing into them. He pressed his face into the pillow and imagined Tom appearing behind him and pressing kisses on the back of his neck and shoulders. Imagined Tom touching with talented hands to bring him to wakefulness.

But—

Harry gave himself a mental shake. His head would not be quiet. It was not looking likely that he would fall back asleep and wake to Tom surprising him with a morning snog.

With a heavy exhale, Harry grabbed at his blankets and sat up, careful to keep his shoulders wrapped. He was not brave enough to leave the sanctuary of his warm bed. From all around the room, the bright surfaces of mirrors glittered at him, each of them devoid of Tom’s presence.

Harry loved the mirrors. To him, each reflective surface was a representation of Tom, another place where he could connect to the one he loved. To him, mirrors would always mean Tom.

There had been a period of time when Harry was embarrassed about the sheer amount of mirrors in here—namely, when Tom kissed him in front of them. Or when Tom ran hands over his body, like Harry was a masterpiece to be revered and put on display. Harry was painfully shy about his own appearance, about the marks and scars from his childhood laid out like warning signs on his skin, brands of mistreatment and disfigurement.

Tom’s sense of exhibitionism did not play well with Harry’s insecurities. It was difficult enough to share himself with Tom. Tom, who was the only person he trusted. But Harry tried his best. He shut his eyes when the sight grew to be too much. He buried his face against Tom’s neck and breathed as loudly as he dared.

Tom held him through all of it, whispered kind things that welled deep emotions in Harry’s chest, a swirl of elation and relief all at once. Elation that here was someone who loved him despite the rest; relief that perhaps his flaws were understood at last. Flaws that Harry knew he had, no matter what Tom said, because it had been told to him over and over again. 

The Dursleys had been cruel to him, but they had not been wrong. Harry did not fit in at home, but he also did not fit in at school with other children. Truthfully, Harry did not feel like he belonged anywhere other than in Tom’s arms.

Harry rubbed at his tired eyes, dislodging the weariness from them. He’d like to get up and wash, but he was anxious about leaving the room without Tom by his side. Logically, he knew that all the Dursleys would still be in their rooms, not making any noise lest they draw Tom’s ire upon them. But Harry was worried that something might happen in Tom’s absence. He didn’t want anything to happen—if it did, then Harry would end up hurt and the Dursleys would end up in trouble.

Stretching his arms out, Harry cracked his joints and blinked a few times, trying to get his brain going. What time was it? Harry twisted his body towards the side table. The clock stated it was half past ten. Later than usual. With the cold winter weather, the skies were darker nowadays, so it wasn’t entirely surprising he had slept in. 

Harry got up and pulled the curtains open. The skies were grey, as expected, and there was little to no sunlight peeking through. Harry yawned, then looked back around at his room. The mirrors made the room look bigger than it was.

“Tom?” Harry whispered. He felt silly speaking into the silence, but he wanted Tom back. 

When no one answered him, he shivered and went to get dressed. Tom wouldn’t like it if he got sick because he’d stood around in his pants like an idiot.

One pair of jeans and a cable-knit jumper later, Harry had made his bed and was sitting cross-legged atop of it, staring at the various angles of his reflection.

Restless fingers drummed against his knee. The repetitive action did nothing to soothe his nerves. Harry ran a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to tidy it up. There was no helping the mess, he thought glumly. But it was okay. Tom liked to tangle his fingers there, to wrap the longer curls around his fingers and comment on how soft they were. Tom liked to yank gently and watch Harry’s neck arch.

Harry wrapped a strand around his index finger. It felt okay. It was not particularly soft or nice. Then Harry dragged his fingertips down his neck, over the marks and bites Tom had left behind. Proof, Harry thought happily. Proof that Tom loved him.

His hand trailed lower, over the thick fabric of his jumper, over his chest. He was skinny underneath, ribs somewhat prominent. But it was getting better. Harry got to eat full meals all the time, whenever he wanted. Tom hand fed him fruits and got Aunt Petunia to make treacle tart, which was Harry’s favourite.

Harry liked to take his meals here in his room, away from the rest of his family. Tom didn’t prefer it; he liked for Harry to sit with him at the front of the table while the Dursleys watched. The Dursleys were not allowed to eat until Harry was done. It was just that Harry didn’t like to do things with an audience. It was a similar discomfort to Tom kissing him in front of their reflections. 

Harry liked to... he preferred to not exist unless it was for Tom. It was easier to be okay with himself when there was no one else around, when there were no mirrors for him to catch a glimpse of his own face in. When Tom held him, touched him, kissed him—then the world was perfect.

Sometimes, Harry thought that maybe he ought to have been the one placed into a mirror. It would be better for the both of them if that was the case. If Tom was the one allowed to roam free and do what he wanted while Harry followed him around, content to be the shadow in Tom’s wake.

Harry blinked. He was feeling sleepy. Sitting around doing nothing was not helping him. Furtively, he glanced about again. Still no Tom. That was okay. He only had to wait; Tom would come back.

* * *

By noon, Harry was firmly set into his delusion. Nothing was wrong. Tom would come back. Tom had promised he would. Tom had promised to never leave him.

_Wait for me,_ Tom would say. Then he would offer a tender smile, or his hand would curl neatly against Harry’s cheek, cupping it firmly. Or he would give Harry a kiss farewell, a tiny moment of happiness for Harry to hold close to his heart until Tom returned to him. 

Harry would always wait.

* * *

Some hours later, Harry’s stomach growled in protest, the twinge of it uncomfortable. With reluctance, Harry forced himself to leave his room to get something to eat. Tom would be mad if he didn’t take care of himself.

On his way to the stairs, Harry stared at the doors of the Dursleys’ rooms. Dudley’s room and the room that his aunt and uncle shared. Both doors locked shut, both rooms silent.

Last night had been uneventful. A few hours after dinner, Tom had told Harry to go upstairs and warm the bed for them both while he went about securing the house for the night. Harry had done so, and then shortly after, Tom had come to join him.

The stairs creaked softly under Harry’s feet as he crept down them. Harry’s hand clung to the railing as he took care to not misstep. When he reached the bottom, he noted that the ground floor of the house was eerily empty. 

At this hour, it was common for Uncle Vernon to have returned from work—though it was the holiday season now, which meant that it was normal for the man to take two weeks or so off to spend with his family. Aunt Petunia would be in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Dudley would be doing chores in the house, either whatever needed doing or whatever Tom found the most amusing at the time.

Harry’s gaze caught on the entrance hall mirror. The new one that Uncle Vernon had installed seven years ago. Seven years ago, Harry thought, and didn’t that send a chill down his spine? Like ice water trickling into his bones, like the sharp jolt of fear he used to get when his aunt or uncle raised their voices at him. 

No one raised their voice at him anymore. The only loud noises in the house were inflicted by Tom. Harry still jumped at loud noises, but Tom was there to soothe him.

The kitchen was cold and drafty. Harry turned on the lights and made himself a sandwich. A quick and easy meal to hold him over until Tom came back.

Harry picked up one of the house’s many mirrors and propped it up in front of him while he ate. Every so often, he would look at his reflection, hoping—

Harry didn’t like his reflection on its own. He wished Tom was there with him.

When his meal was done, Harry got up and washed his plate. He tidied and dried everything, then placed it all back where it belonged. The motions were familiar, though he hadn’t done them in a while; still, his calloused hands remembered the scrubbing and soaping of dish after dish in the sink. 

Once the kitchen was spotless once more, Harry went back upstairs and locked his bedroom door. He lay on top of his bed, on top of the blankets and the sheets, and stared at the ceiling.

Tom would be back soon.

Tom would be back _soon._

Tom _would—_

* * *

Some time later, Harry got up again. He got up and walked over to the master bedroom. He used the key that Tom kept in their room to click the lock open. He pushed open the door.

Inside the bedroom were two bodies on the bed. Harry watched them from a distance, watched the lack of movement and absent rise and fall of their chests. Their faces were pale. If Harry touched them, they would be cool to the touch.

Harry tried to feel something, anything. He did not feel sad. He felt neither horror nor fear at the sight of his dead relatives. If he went to the other bedroom, he was certain that Dudley would be as motionless, as devoid of life as his parents. Harry was also certain that Tom had done this somehow, the night before he’d—

The night before they’d gone to bed and Harry had woken up on his own.

Harry left the master bedroom and relocked the door. He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Then he went downstairs and made himself some more food to eat. Dishes in the sink, dishes on the drying rack, dishes back in their proper place. Harry looked through the window at the snow-covered backyard and wondered how cold it was outside.

Harry went back up to his room and went to sleep.

* * *

There was no note, no instructions left behind for Harry to read. It wasn’t like Tom to be gone this long without saying anything. Harry fiddled with the hem of his shirt and gnawed anxiously on his lower lip. 

He looked at the mirrors.

He looked at himself, at the darkness lurking under his eyes and the scruffy mess of his hair.

Tom loves me, he thought. That was enough to keep him going. That thought could power him through anything; it had seen him through even the worst abuse from the Dursleys.

When Tom came back, he would make fun of Harry for being so worried. Tom would hold his hand and make his anxieties seem smaller and less important. Harry clung to this. He knew he was reliant on Tom for everything—for happiness, for emotional support—but who else was there? Who else could make him happy, could make him feel whole and worthy?

Without Tom, he was nobody. He was a poor orphan who would never amount to anything. He was a freak who was hated by his family.

Tom made him special. Tom loved him.

Harry stayed in his room and waited for his love to return to him.

* * *

The mirrors were mocking him. Harry was skittish, startled by his own movements in their reflection. He was bone-weary and felt drained all the time; without Tom to ground him, to hold him, sleep evaded Harry constantly. He woke from nightmares more often than not—horrible nightmares where Tom was hurt and bleeding while Harry stood there, frozen and unable to help.

Harry missed Tom so badly. Though he had never been religious, he prayed to every deity he knew for Tom to come back soon.

Some mornings he woke with a gasp of Tom’s name into the cool winter air. Sweat drenching his hairline and plastering his body to the sheets. An unease that never left him, and likely would not leave him until Tom—

Until Tom—

The thought remained unfinished. Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He had to do something. Anything other than stare at his own image, everywhere, without Tom by its side. 

Or, worse yet, when he _did_ see Tom in the edges of his peripheral vision, haunting him like a ghost. Tom was everywhere and nowhere, a memory that stole the breath from Harry’s lungs. There were apparitions of Tom’s presence in every room, in every reflective surface.

Harry was half-convinced every time, sure that Tom had returned to him. Sure that this time, Tom’s smile would not be an illusion that shattered when he whirled round.

Tom would come back, if only to lecture Harry for failing to eat and drink properly. Tom would come back to yell at him. Harry knew this to be true; the fact of Tom’s care had been a solid pillar of his life since the age of eleven. If Harry let himself fall to ruins, then Tom would come back to pick up the pieces.

* * *

Harry moved through the house like a ghost. His steps were restless, his breathing pitched. Harry wandered through the kitchen, then to the dining room, then to the bathroom. It was there that he stopped to take in his own appearance.

His hair was wilder than normal—tangled locks in disarray all over in uneven clumps. Harry raised a tentative hand halfway up and placed it against the mirror’s glossy surface.

“Tom?” he asked, pleaded, _begged._

The mirror did not offer back that which had been taken from him. Harry pressed his hand harder against the surface, leant his weight against it. If he smacked the glass hard enough, it would perhaps shatter. 

“Tom?” Harry repeated, his voice hoarse and damaged to his own ears. “Tom, please, come back. I’m sorry.”

Harry braced his other hand against that of his reflection. He forced eye contact, stared into endless green eyes and wondered if this suffering was because he was not enough. If he was being punished, somehow, for being the way he was. For being abnormal. For failing to give Tom the freedom he deserved.

Harry held his position for what felt like an age, mumbling apologies under his breath. Who he was apologizing to was unclear, but he did so anyways, hoping that his bling repentance would be enough. Then when his strength finally gave up, he sank to his knees, exhausted and limbs aching, and then lay upon the floor.

Tom would come back to him. Tom had promised. Wherever Tom was, he would be fighting to return.

But how long would it take? And what if such a thing was impossible?

It was too painful to think of. Harry lay still, shivered through the hollowness and the aching until there were no more tears to cry, until he could hardly move from the floor, let alone sob. There was agony in his chest and in his heart. There was the gaping hole that Tom had left behind.

The cold tile felt soothing against his flushed, angry red skin. Harry closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the numbness that the sensation provided, but guilt remained at the forefront of his mind. Tom would be disappointed in him for acting this way. Tom would want him to take care of himself.

Only Tom wasn’t here, so what reason was there to look after himself? Maybe Harry could lie here on the ground forever. No one would miss him—Tom was the one who loved him and Tom was not here. Harry’s relatives were dead and Tom was not here.

“What do I do?” Harry mumbled to the tile, feverish and drenched in sweat. “What do I do, Tom.” He repeated this over and over, perhaps hoping that an answer would come to him, but no absolution arrived. He was alone.

Harry fell asleep sprawled on the floor. He woke to a dry mouth and sore throat. His lips were chapped and on the verge of cracking. Licking at them did not help; what he needed was water. Water to soothe the dryness, to heal the ache. Tom was not here to bring him a mug of water, so Harry had to do it himself.

With difficulty, Harry stood and turned on the tap. His vision swam, spinning with blurry shapes and colours. His glasses were crooked on his face, he realized. With one hand clutching the counter, Harry cupped his free hand under the tap and drank some water from it. The water tasted funny, but he made himself swallow. His throat eased up; he filled his hand again and drank from it slowly, sipping a bit at a time to avoid triggering nausea.

Then Harry took a spare second to focus on his breathing. In and out, in and out—enough to partly clear his stuffy head. Once he was certain he wasn’t about to fall over, he straightened his glasses and refocused on the bathroom mirror.

There were lines on his face from having slept on the tile. Harry rubbed at them half-heartedly. The sense of anguish from before remained a heavy cloud in his head and on his shoulders. There was the truth of things that he had finally been forced to acknowledge.

Tom was gone.

Harry wanted to rage, to scream out at the injustice of it. The one good person in his life had been taken from him. In the past, Harry might have believed that Tom would eventually leave him for someone better, but patience and affection had taken care of that fear. Certainty was all that remained. Tom would not have chosen to abandon their lives here. Tom loved him.

So the only question left was what Harry would do now that he was all alone. He could not stay in the house forever—he was not of age. Once the police came to see… to see whatever it was that Tom had done, Harry would be sent away from here.

Despite the bad memories that clung to every crevice of this house, it was all he had known, and on top of that, his best memories had taken place here. Each moment spent with Tom was burrowed deep into these walls, built into the mirrors that sat around the house. 

Harry did not want to leave the house. Maybe Tom was still in these mirrors, watching over him. A silent guardian angel. His special guardian angel. 

Harry thought about that, tried to imagine it. Tom with wings, Tom dressed in white. But no, that didn’t fit Tom. Tom would forever be dressed in the same clothes, forever half-smiling with fondness whenever Harry came into view. Tom laying his hand against the glass in a gesture of affection.

Most of their time together had been while Tom lived in the mirror, but all of it had taken place here at Privet Drive. Actually, Harry thought, maybe Tom was still in the mirror world. Maybe Tom had never left, and his current absence was merely the conclusion of their seven years together. 

Seven years of bad luck; seven years of Tom.

Excitement filled him. Harry felt giddy for the first time in days. Yes, Tom _was_ with him. It was just that Harry could not see or hear him. The more Harry thought about it, the more certain he was. Tom would never, ever leave him. Tom had to be here in the house.

“Tom,” Harry said aloud. “Tom, I know you’re there. I’m going to find my way back to you, I promise. Wait for me.”

He would promise as Tom had. He would keep his promise.

Possessed by this notion, Harry went to the downstairs living room. Mirrors lay all around, propped against the furniture and nailed to the walls. Reminders of Tom.

If Harry broke them, then Tom might come back to him. If he broke another mirror, and another, and another, Tom would be his for seven more years. That was how the world worked. That was how the world was _supposed_ to work. 

But what if it was not?

What if Harry shattered every mirror in this house and was still left with nothing? With his own failures.

Unbearable. Time was wasting away. Tom was relying on him, and here he was, dithering. Being weak. Harry wheezed a shaky breath and balled his hands up. Ice water was running through his veins, stopping up his motions, freezing him from the inside out. His body trembled all over; it took a monumental amount of effort for him to step forward, to carry out the task of trust he had pressed upon his own shoulders.

If not for himself, then for Tom. Anything for Tom.

One by one the mirrors cracked and fractured under Harry’s fists. Harry smashed mirrors on the ground, broke them against the walls and the furniture. He let loose the screams that had been held captive in his lungs ever since he’d woken to find himself alone. A flurry of action and motion and madness; a release of the emotions he’d repressed in Tom’s absence.

When it was done, Harry stood there panting, his lungs protesting the sudden exercise after days of lethargy. His eyes were watery, but his gaze swept the ground, searching, hopeful that he would catch a glimpse of Tom in their depths. The curl of Tom’s smile, a glimmer of red eyes.

Harry sunk to his knees, knowing that Tom had to be _somewhere—_

Where was Tom? Why wasn’t he here yet?

Harry’s hands hovered over the shards of glass, hesitating. In the back of his mind, Tom’s voice was lecturing him on safety, on not injuring his hands on the glass. The internal struggle raged on between Harry’s stubbornness and the imagined version of Tom in his head.

_You’re not here,_ Harry thought savagely. _You’re not here._

Provoked, he pushed the smaller fragments aside with the side of his left hand so he could view the larger ones underneath. Carefully at first, then with more desperation, uncaring if he hurt himself in the process. 

So many glittering pieces that reflected the aching, empty space around him. Was that a lock of Tom’s hair, or was it his own? The white collar of Tom’s shirt, or the pristine table cloth that Aunt Petunia laid out upon the coffee table? Harry’s heart leapt to his throat each time, the wild rage of hope living on in his chest.

His imagination at play. A stupid, idiotic longing for a boy who no longer existed.

For a fleeting, miserable second, Harry pondered the fact of Tom’s existence. Perhaps Tom had been a figment, a dream all along. But that was silly. It was silly. Tom loved him. Tom was real. They had been together for seven years and every hour of it had been exquisitely, torturously real. Harry had a chance to bring Tom back if only he was clever enough, determined enough, worthy enough.

Harry would break more mirrors if that was what it took. Mirrors in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the bedrooms, out in the hall.

Out in the hall.

Harry scrambled to his feet and ran to the entrance way; he knocked into the wall on his way out and had to grip the door frame for balance. That was when he noticed the red line on his palm. He must have cut himself by mistake after all. 

The cut did not hurt, did not throb or sting with pain. Numbly, Harry eyed the injury as he twisted his wrist this way and that. It was as he’d thought. It was as Tom had said. He had not been careful and he had injured himself. Only, this time Tom was not here to soothe the pain.

With deliberate thought behind the action, Harry strode towards the mirror that hung by the door. The other mirrors that Harry had broken in his grief and anger were not _this_ mirror. The mirror that had started it all. When Tom appeared, it would be in this mirror _here,_ not in any of the other ones.

Harry went to stand in front of it—he pried the mirror and its frame off of the wall and looked lovingly down at the shining surface, at his own reflection. This mirror looked so much like its predecessor. Gently, Harry touched his fingertips to the image of his own face. He could picture Tom on the other side, mimicking the action. This idea brought comfort. The two of them with their hands touching, separated by whatever supernatural veil saw fit to keep them apart.

“I love you,” Harry said quietly, hoping that Tom could hear him. Tom would be coming back to him soon. Tom was there, somewhere. Waiting for him, relying on him.

Harry would keep this mirror with him until Tom came back. He would take care of them both. Tom had spoken of taking the Dursley’s money and leaving Surrey. Harry could still do that now. What he needed was time—only, how to get it?

Uncle Vernon would be expected to go back to work soon. Harry could call in, maybe. Could report that there had been some terrible accident. If he played his part well enough, they would believe him and not ask too many questions. Dudley was not expected anywhere, and neither was Aunt Petunia. The only relative that ever visited was Aunt Marge, and she was not the type to drop by unannounced.

So Harry would call in for his uncle. That would grant them a few weeks of reprieve, time for Harry to gather resources and figure out what to do, where to go. To make the decisions that Tom would have made for them if he were here.

Now that Harry had made strides towards an actual plan, he felt better. His head was pounding less and his heart was beginning to settle in his chest. 

With the mirror in his hands, Harry walked down the hall and towards the kitchen. If he was going to do things, he needed his strength, and for that he needed to eat. He needed to look after himself so he could help Tom.

Even out in the hall, the floor was tiled and covered in sprinkles of glass bits. Harry’s violent rampage had resulted in pieces flung everywhere. If not for his glasses, he might have damaged his eyes; thankfully, the lenses had protected him from any fallout.

The litter of glass that might slice up the soles of his feet. However, because the house was cold, Harry was wearing socks. Even with that barrier, it was dangerous—the socks were thick and woolen, but they were not infallible. But surprisingly, it was not the stabbing pain of glass impaling his foot that triggered disaster.

Dressed in thick socks, dizzy and delirious from lack of food and water, Harry had no balance to speak of. Therefore, as his foot made contact with the glass-covered ground, it slid. It slid clean across, yanking his center of gravity out from under him.

The mirror in his hands was held tight, clutched with desperate fingers, but it was not enough to overpower years of instinct—Harry flung his hands out to catch his fall.

The angle was bad. Combined with his uncoordinated limbs, it caused him to accidentally slam his elbow into the wall. His other arm flailed awkwardly as a yelp of pain escaped him. Harry landed on the floor with a solid _thunk_ sound, though his head thankfully missed hitting the ground. 

Harry’s head was spinning again. Everything looked darker than normal, like shadows had been cast over the entire hall. His legs were splayed out in an ungainly manner—on top of them lay the heavy deadweight of the mirror.

Dread crawled over him, dug its claws into his skin like sharp knives. Harry sat up and pried the mirror off his legs, his breath held, and noted that the surface of the glass was cracked right down the middle. It was not the same level of damage as last time—shattered and splintered pieces—but it was damage nonetheless. 

Harry lifted the mirror higher, up to his eye level. In the distortion of the ruined surface, he looked deranged, depairing. His gaze was unfocused, devoid of any expression whatsoever.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to go back to bed. To his nice warm bed, where he could imagine Tom’s arms around him, Tom’s voice a lullaby in his ears, Tom’s body pressed against his and keeping him safe.

The Harry in the mirror shifted from one side to another. Swaying and swaying. He was crying now. There were tears streaming down his face, hiccups and heaving sobs bursting from his throat in strangled, half-audible gasps. Harry dragged the mirror up and cradled it with both hands, ignoring the stinging pain of sharp glass that nipped at the skin of his palms.

All he could think was that he had failed. This truth consumed, it tore him open at the seams, exposing every bit of worthlessness that the Dursleys always claimed lay inside of him.

Harry had broken the mirror, the one connection to Tom he had left. He had failed. Hysteria filled his lungs, made him wheeze until he was choking on it, unable to inhale or exhale. At this, he thought faintly that he might pass out. If he was unconscious at least he would be put out of his misery, however temporarily.

His head spun faster. His chest ached for oxygen. His body cried out for arms to hold it, for a gentle hand to pet his hair and a soft voice to reassure him. 

Soon enough, no more tears escaped—each passing second was instead filled with his failed attempts to draw breath. Tremors wracked his shoulders, shudders of anguish and exhaustion that drained him.

He had failed.

He would not see Tom again—

Harry made a pathetic sound and clung to the mirror, felt the broken frame cut into his flesh as he held it to his chest. The pain was not so bad. It grounded him. He deserved it, anyways. There was no apology that could forgive this. He should have taken better care of himself. Then he would not have fallen. Or else he should have been less of a klutzy idiot. 

If their positions had been reversed, no doubt Tom would have already found a way to save him. Tom had been stuck with Harry, a useless nobody who needed to be looked after all the time.

_I’m sorry,_ Harry thought, unable to hold the words back. _I’m sorry, Tom._

It was easier, then, to let go. To let his mind go blank and slide into unconsciousness. To be free from the suffering of his reality, the reality without Tom in it.

Harry let the darkness wash over him like a tidal wave and hoped he would never wake up.

* * *

####  **I.**

* * *

In the mirror that lay against Harry’s chest, a boy with dark hair and red eyes beat his silent fists against the surface of the mirror. His lips mouthed soundless screams—the same words over and over, one name spoken more vehemently than the rest:

_Harry! Harry, are you there? Can you hear me? Harry? HARRY?_

Around the boy was nothing, only the endless void of near-black shadows that were reflected by the mirror. 

When Harry woke _(if_ Harry woke, though the boy did not dare think such a thing) then the light would return. The mirror would be lifted and the light would come back, would pour into the mirror world where Tom Riddle existed purely for Harry. 

Only for Harry.

So when Harry woke—it _would_ happen, the boy vowed—they would be reunited. They would be together again, even if they could no longer touch and hear each other. He would not waste away here in this prison, cold and unfeeling. Not after Harry had shown him what it meant to love, to have someone to cherish and protect.

Harry would not last without him. Harry _needed_ him.

_Wait for me,_ the boy shouted, desperate for the words to reach his beloved. _Wait for me, Harry._

* * *

Slowly, slowly, the outside world moved onward. Light and shadows crept across the floor, not quite reaching the sleeping boy laid out in a heap over splintered glass, his chest rising and falling underneath the weight of a shattered, ceramic-framed mirror.

When he woke, he would meet red eyes in place of his own reflection.

When he woke, the cycle would begin anew.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end! in case it is not clear, the cycle is now going to repeat; tom and harry will have another seven years to figure out how to free tom from the mirror.
> 
> thank you all for reading, i hope the ending was enjoyable and not too depressing djklgklgjdf

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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